


Mother's Day

by PennyLane



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:19:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennyLane/pseuds/PennyLane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's mother comes for a visit over Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother's Day

 

           "WINSTON! I THOUGHT YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO DO LAUNDRY YESTERDAY!"

 

           Winston Zeddemore looked up from his plate of pancakes and bacon, wincing at the decibel level of Peter Venkman's shout. "If he asks me one more time where his green sweater is," he muttered.

 

           Across the table, Egon Spengler and Ray Stantz smothered their grins at Zeddemore's grumbling.

 

           As if on cue, the last member of the Ghostbusters team stuck his head into the kitchen. Clad in tan cords, but shirtless, dark hair still damp from his shower, Peter Venkman appeared in the doorway. "Winston, my green sweater was in the wash—"

 

           "And—for the third time, Pete—it's downstairs on the table beside the washer."

 

           The psychologist blinked, green eyes all innocence. "Why didn't you say so?" Then, before Winston could throw anything at him, he ducked out and disappeared.

 

           The black man shook his head. "If that boy doesn't sit down soon, I'm gonna tie him to a chair."

 

           "He's just excited because his mom's coming," Ray told him, his own eyes shining with anticipation. "He wants everything to be perfect." His gaze met Egon's across the table and the two men exchanged an understanding look. "It's good to see Peter so happy this close to Christmas, isn't it?" he asked softly.

 

           The blond man nodded, his smile matching Ray's. He could never remember seeing Peter so high-spirited at this time of the year. The Christmas season was a tough one for Venkman, and no matter how hard he and Ray tried to draw Peter into the spirit of the season, he knew they never quite succeeded in wiping away the unhappy childhood memories the psychologist carried with him. Still, Egon liked to think he and Ray had made a difference; after all, Peter no longer brushed Christmas aside with a casual, "It's just another day to me," as he had when they first met in college. If he wasn't completely reconciled to the holiday spirit, at least he didn't dismiss it out of hand any longer.

 

           Having his mother coming to visit during the holidays would help tremendously, Egon mused, sipping his coffee. This was Margaret Venkman Ellison's first Christmas since Harold, her husband of the last seven years, had died, and Peter had persuaded her to spend the holidays in New York. Spengler grinned to himself as he recalled Venkman's whirlwind decorating efforts over the last few days. Margaret had never been to Ghostbuster Central, and Peter was determined it was going to be at its sparkling best for her visit.

 

           Off-key whistling announced Venkman's re-entrance, and the psychologist bounced into the room, full of nervous energy. The green sweater—a gift from his mom—was the right color to bring out the luminous emerald of his eyes, and his dark hair was combed to perfection, its very darkness a becoming contrast to his fair complexion. This was Peter Venkman at the top of his form. It was good seeing him looking so healthy again, Egon thought, and glanced at Ray. The occultist's face held signs of contentment that told him Stantz was probably thinking the same thing. Last month Peter had come down with a case of bronchitis, which had abruptly soared out of control and turned into pneumonia. He had recovered without complications, but it had taken a lot out of him, and Peter was only now starting to regain his usual energy levels.

 

           "Morning, guys," Venkman called out cheerfully and poured himself a cup of coffee.

 

           Ray's hazel eyes were dancing with amusement. This was not the Peter-Venkman-before-noon they were usually blessed with. "Morning, Peter. When's your mom getting in?"

 

           "Eleven thirty-seven," he said promptly. "Figured I'd take Ecto and pick her up at LaGuardia."

 

           Winston gave him a long look from across the table. "So that's why I got all that extra elbow grease yesterday," he said dryly. "You never saw this boy work so hard polishing ol' Ecto's headlights."

 

           Peter had the good grace to look abashed as he piled his plate with pancakes. "Just wanted it to look nice," he mumbled.

 

           "Peter." Spengler gazed at Venkman over the top of his glasses. "Your mother is coming here to visit with you, not Ecto and not the firehouse."

 

           Venkman's only reply was to stare consideringly at Egon's chosen uniform of the day—a pink shirt and tan slacks, set off by bright red suspenders. "You're not wearing _that,_ are you?" he asked with a little frown.

 

           Spengler sat his cup down with a lot more force than was necessary. "What's _wrong_ with this?" His eyes narrowed dangerously. "And what are you, the clothes police?"

 

           Whatever Peter was going to say was interrupted by the sounds of the doorbell downstairs and Ray and Winston's snickers in the kitchen.

 

           "I'll get it." Stantz and Zeddemore both jumped up at the same time, chortling as they hurried out of the kitchen.

 

           Egon continued to glare at Peter, who seemed completely oblivious to the murder in his blue eyes.

 

           "You've got a perfectly good blue shirt to wear," Peter pointed out. "I laid it out on your bed—"

 

           "You laid clothes out on my bed?" Egon said sternly.

 

           Venkman spread both hands in a gesture of conciliation. "I was just trying to help, Egon," he retorted, eyes wide with innocence. Then he smiled brightly. "I laid out your navy slacks, too. Just in case you decide to—"

 

           "Peter!" Ray Stantz appeared in the doorway, slightly breathless, but grinning. "I think you'd better come downstairs."

 

           "Why?"

 

           "You've got a visitor."

 

           When it was obvious he wasn't going to get any more out of Ray, Venkman shrugged and headed for the stairs. As soon as he left. Ray turned his grin on Spengler. "You'd better come, too, Egon."

 

           Stantz disappeared before he could get any answers either, so the physicist tossed his napkin aside and followed the auburn-haired man down the stairs. He was just in time to see Peter Venkman's jaw drop as he skidded to a halt in front of a pleasant-looking late-fifty-ish woman standing by Janine's desk. "Mom!"

 

           Margaret Venkman smiled, her grey eyes warm. "Hello, sweetheart."

 

           "Mom, what are you—" Venkman broke off, his own smile blossoming, and stepped forward to gather the slender woman into an enthusiastic embrace. "You look great," he murmured, giving her a squeeze, then holding her at arms' length for a good look.

 

           "So do you," she smiled, lightly stroking his cheek as her gaze quickly ran over his handsome features, as if taking inventory. Then her smile faded and a slight frown touched her face. "You've lost weight," she decided. "Have you been taking care of yourself?"

 

           "I always take care of myself," Peter said promptly, and immediately changed the subject. "And what are you doing here at eight o'clock in the morning? Your plane wasn't supposed to get in until eleven thirty. And I was supposed to pick you up," he added sternly.

 

           "I was able to get an earlier flight, and I decided to surprise you, so I took a cab."

 

           Venkman sighed expansively. "Mom, you shouldn't have spent cab fare—"

 

           Egon cleared his throat. "Peter, perhaps the rest of us could say hello also?"

 

           The psychologist shot him a mildly annoyed look, but dutifully stood aside when his mother patted him on the arm. Turning to Egon, she smiled warmly at the physicist. "My, Egon, don't you look nice."

 

           Spengler favored Peter with a smug look as he wrapped Mrs. Venkman into a welcoming embrace. "Hello, Margaret. It's been too long."

 

           "It's good tosee you again, Egon." Lowering her voice, Margaret whispered, "And he _has_ lost weight."

 

           "Just a little," he assured her, careful to keep his own voice to a whisper. He caught a look in her eyes that promised they would discuss this subject later before she turned her attentions to Ray.

 

           Stantz' eyes were bright with delight. Egon and Ray had known Margaret Venkman since their days at Columbia, and as their friendship with Peter had grown and deepened, their relationship with her had deepened well. In Egon she had found a confidant, a stabilizing influence in her son's life, an adult she could trust to keep an eye on Peter. With Ray she came to know him as the younger brother her son had 'adopted' and had always treated this gentle young man with kindness and affection. And Ray, for his part, responded with the open warmth that was a part of his nature.

 

           Stantz smiled happily as the woman pulled him into a maternal hug. "Hello, Ray."

 

           "Hi, Mrs. Venkman. Merry Christmas." Technically, of course, she wasn't Mrs. Venkman', but she had always been that to Ray, and she never objected when he forgot.

 

           "Merry Christmas to you, too." When she stood back to get a good look at him, she cocked her head, her grey eyes twinkling. "I'll bet you're giving my son a run for his money where the ladies are concerned, aren't you?" she asked, obviously referring to Stantz' new trimmed-down look.

 

           The occultist blushed clear to the roots of his hair. "Aw, Mrs. Venkman," he mumbled. "I don't think anybody can do that."

 

           The psychologist laughed and dropped an arm across the younger man's shoulders. "What can I say, Mom? I'm a legend in my own—"

 

           "—mind," Egon finished flatly, his eyes sparkling.

 

           Peter's response was to stick out his tongue.

 

           "Peter Charles Venkman." Peter shot a guilty look at his mother, who was eyeing him sternly. "I thought I taught you better manners than that."

 

           Venkman grinned. "You did." He dropped a quick kiss on her cheek, then looked around. "Yo, Winston! Where are you, man?"

           Zeddemore carried the last of Margaret's suitcases inside and ambled over to Join the reunion. "Right here, Pete."

 

           Peter laid an possessive arm across his mother's shoulders. "Winston, I've got someone here I want you to meet. Mom, this is Winston Zeddemore. Winston..." He smiled affectionately at the woman under his arm, his voice softening, "This is my mom."

 

           Margaret extended her hand. "Peter's told me a lot about you, Winston."

 

           Zeddemore engulfed the smaller hand in his. "And I've heard a lot about you, ma'am." He flashed a grin. "And for once Pete wasn't exaggerating."

 

           "Before my reputation gets ruined _completely..."_ Peter firmly turned his mother away from the others and steered her toward the spare room. "Why don't I get you settled...since you refuse to go to that nice hotel room I booked for you..."

 

           "Peter, we've been through this a hundred times. I didn't come to New York for you to spend your money putting me up in a hotel. I came here to spend time with _you._ "

 

           Venkman looked like he was going to argue, then simply sighed. "Yes, ma'am."

 

           Egon smothered his grin as he watched Peter meekly acquiescing to his mother. Before he had met Margaret Venkman, he always thought that Peter must have been quite a handful for any mother to raise on her own. But after getting to know her, Egon decided she was more than equal to the task.

 

           Venkman's face brightened as he snatched up a bag of gaily-wrapped Christmas gifts beside his mother's suitcase. "Hey, presents!" He pulled one a large one that had been sticking out and gave it an experimental shake. "Is this one for me?"

 

           There will be no shaking, squeezing or otherwise molesting of presents until Christmas morning," Margaret ordered crisply, and quickly confiscated the gift. "The rules haven't changed just because you're no longer ten years old."

 

           "Aww, Mom..."

 

           Egon watched them go with a smile on his face. Peter adored his mother, but life as a Ghostbuster left him little time to fly halfway across country to visit. And with Harold in poor health, Margaret hadn't been able to come to New York, so this would be the first lengthy visit they would have with one another in some time.

 

           "It's going to be a great Christmas, isn't it?" Ray asked softly, moving to stand by his elbow.

 

           Egon looked at the younger man by his side. It never ceased to amaze him how Ray, whose childhood had been marred by tremendous loss and tragedy could always be so genuinely delighted for other people's happiness and garner so much satisfaction from seeing other families gathered together.

 

           "Yes, Raymond," he agreed, his eyes warm, "I think this will be an _exceptional_ Christmas."

 

*****

 

           Peter Venkman viewed the crumbling tenement building with trepidation. This did not look like a promising bust. He regretted having to take jobs at all while his mother was visiting but the truth was they needed the money. The overhead for their business was incredible, and busts in the last couple of months had been few and far between. So they really had little choice when the call came in for what sounded like a Class Three roaming around an abandoned building across town. Reluctantly, Peter had left his mother in the care of Janine who had told him slyly, "Don't worry, Dr. V. Your mother and I will find _lots_ to talk about." That's what he was afraid of.

 

           Venkman sighed as he shrugged into his proton pack. Money or not, he would have been tempted to turn down the job—he wasn't crazy about this neighborhood—but the tenement was slated for renovation by the city, and they couldn't afford to turn down a request from the mayor. You never knew when the Ghostbusters might need a little help from _him._

 

           "Ready, gentlemen?" Egon already had his trusty PKE meter out taking readings.

 

           Peter nodded. "Ready. But if we have to split up, we do it in pairs. This place doesn't look all that safe and I don't want anyone wandering off without backup."

 

           "Agreed," Spengler said, and led the way into the brick building.

 

          

 

           "Anything, Ray?" Peter fingered his thrower and cast a wary eye around at the crumbling plaster walls and sagging ceilings. The place looked like it could come down on their heads any minute.

 

           Stantz twiddled with a dial on the PKE meter. Egon and Winston had split into one team to cover the top floors and he and Ray had started with the basement to begin their sweep. That was clean, so they had climbed to the first floor. "Nothing yet—hey! Got him!"

 

           Peter tightened the grip on his thrower. "Where?" he demanded, looking around quickly.

 

           The occultist pointed to a closed door up ahead and took off down the hallway. "Down there! Come on!"

 

           Venkman spun around in time to see Ray running full tilt toward that door. "Ray, wait! Don't go in there without knowing— ah, shit! Ray!" Ray would jump into a live volcano if he thought there was a ghost in there. The psychologist took off after him at a run, but Ray was already through the door by the time he got there.

 

           Stantz was standing in the middle of the room, his thrower trained on a floating bluish apparition hovering in the comer near the ceiling. "In here, Peter! I've got him!"

 

           "Ray, for crying out loud, how many times do I have to tell you—" Peter broke off his harangue in horror as he saw the floor beneath Ray begin to sag ominously. The occultist was so caught up in landing that ghost he never noticed. "Ray, look out!" Peter charged into the room, hoping he could catch Ray around the waist and propel him out of the way of danger and that the floor along the walls would be stronger than it was in the center.

 

           He never got the chance to find out.

 

           He was a step away from Ray when the floor gave way under their combined weight. Their yells of sheer panic mingled with the sharp crack of boards fracturing as they found themselves with nothing under them except air.

 

           That condition, however, didn't last long. Peter landed hard on the dusty cement floor of the basement. His head struck something and for stunned moments all he saw were stars. The landing wouldn't have been gentle in any case, but the added weight of the proton pack hadn't helped any. When his head finally cleared, he laboriously raised it from the dirty floor and looked around immediately for his companion. "Ray? Ray!"

 

           "Over here, Peter." Venkman turned his head—a little too quickly—and saw that Ray, like himself, was lying on his stomach. The occultist sounded a little breathless, but his voice was strong and he had raised his head and was blinking through the floating dust to locate Peter. "You okay?"

 

           "I guess so," Venkman answered slowly, then reached up to rub at his aching forehead. When his fingers came away bloody, he winced. "Or not. What about you? You all right?"

 

           Ray shifted, then stiffened. "I don't think so."

 

           Forgetting the blood on his fingers, Peter immediately pushed himself up, grateful when all his limbs seemed to be in working order. "What's wrong?" he demanded, and stiffly crawled to Stantz' side. He put a hand on the younger man's back to keep him still. "Where does it hurt? Do you think you broke anything?"

 

           "My wrist," Stantz grunted. "I landed on it."

 

           Peter relaxed a little. Broken wrists weren't fatal. "Anything else? Ribs, leg?"

 

           The auburn hair shook slowly. "No. Just knocked the wind out of me."

 

           "Okay, let me help you up here. Just take it easy till I get you checked out." Very carefully, he eased the younger man over and helped him sit up. Ray was cradling his left wrist against his chest, but his hazel eyes went wide when he saw Peter's face.

 

           "Peter, you're _bleeding_!"

 

           Venkman grimaced. "I know. How bad is it?"

 

           Stantz' brows gathered as he raised his right hand to gently turn Peter's face toward him. "It's not deep," he said with relief, "but it's bleeding a lot. And you're going to have one heck of a bruise."

 

           "Great," he muttered, "just in time for Christmas. Okay, your turn. Let me take a look at that wrist." Very gently, Venkman took the younger man's left wrist, freezing when Stantz stiffened. "Hard to tell," he murmured. "If it's broken, I can't feel it; but it could be a hairline fracture, so we don't take any chances." Reaching out, he unzipped the sand-colored jumpsuit. Ray blinked at him and Venkman grinned. "Easy, pard. We're just going to immobilize and elevate that wrist. Here, just stick in right in there and keep it there." Gently, he guided Ray's wrist into his uniform and raised the zipper until it secured his arm. There. That ought'a hold it until we get you to a hospital." He reached for the communicator on Ray's belt, gave it an experimental shake, and sighed when the insides rattled.

 

           "I guess I landed on _that,_ too," Ray said ruefully.

 

           "No problem-o. We'll just give a yell. Egon and Winston can't be that far away—"

 

           "Peter! Ray!"

 

           Peter turned a triumphant grin on Stantz and Egon and Winston thudded into the room. "See, I told you."

 

           Egon dropped by their side and gave both men a quick, comprehensive glance.

 

           "I got a tap on the head and Ray hurt his wrist," Venkman said quickly, seeing the look of alarm on the older man's face. "We're okay."

 

           Spengler's shoulders lost some of their rigidity as he realized their injuries weren't that serious after all. "Winston, you'd better check out Ray's arm. Peter, hold still so I can see to that cut." The physicist frowned as he held a handkerchief against the still bleeding cut and peered into Venkman' eyes. "Were you knocked out, Peter?"

 

           Peter started to shake his head, then aborted the motion. "No. Just winded."

 

           Spengler cast a glance upwards and his mouth tightened. "You were both lucky you didn't break your necks."

 

           "It's my fault," Ray interjected miserably, wincing as Winston carefully replaced his wrist in its makeshift sling. "I ran into the room without checking it and the floor gave way. Peter was trying to save me." He turned huge, unhappy eyes on Peter. "I'm sorry, Peter. It's my fault—"

 

           "So the next time you'll look before you leap, right?" Venkman said promptly, knowing full well he wouldn't, but unwilling to let Ray continue on his guilt trip. "Besides..." Peter brushed at the dusty auburn hair... "looks like you got the worst part of this deal, kiddo. I'm fine, but we'd better get that wrist looked after." He started to climb to his feet and Egon immediately grabbed his arm to steady him. "So, what about the ghost?" he asked, watching as Winston got Ray to his feet.

 

           "In the bag," Zeddemore replied, keeping his hand around Ray's good arm. "At least we'll get a pay check out of this one."

 

           "Good," Peter muttered as Egon steered him toward the door. "We can use it to keep up our insurance premiums."

 

*****

 

           Peter was slumped in the back seat of Ecto on the drive back to the firehouse. The stop at the emergency room took almost two hours, during which time it was determined that Ray had indeed broken his wrist, and Peter's cut head was cleaned and bandaged. He wasn't concussed, but the bruise on his forehead extended far beyond the patch of gauze the ER doctor had applied, making it look awful, and the nagging little headache that had begun immediately after his fall had blossomed into a massive migraine. Even the aspirin he had downed at the hospital hadn't made a dent in it.

 

           He hung back when Winston pulled the car into Central and everyone else climbed out, leaning over the seat to frown at himself in the rear view mirror.

 

           Egon chose that moment to poke his head back into the car. "Worried about what the ladies are going to think?" he asked dryly.

 

           "No, I'm worried about what my _mother_ is going to think!" Peter snapped.

 

           Sudden comprehension dawned on Spengler's long face and the amusement faded from his eyes. Climbing back into the car, he closed the door and turned to face Peter. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I wasn't thinking."

 

           Venkman smiled ruefully. "For a change, I haven't been doing anything _but._ Usually when I get banged up on a job she doesn't know about it."

 

           "She knows more than you think," Spengler murmured.

 

           Peter shot him a sharp look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

 

           Egon regarded him solemnly. "Peter, she along with millions of other people with television sets, saw our encounter with Gozer. She knows our job is dangerous."

 

           "Spengs," he objected plaintively, "I have gone to great lengths to convince her it _isn't._ "

 

           The blond man smiled sympathetically and dropped a warm hand on his shoulder. "She's your mother, Peter. She's going to worry about you no matter what you say." He tightened his hand briefly. "Would you like me to go in first and...?"

 

           Venkman grimaced. "You go in there without me and she'll probably think I'm dead." Giving himself one last glance in the mirror, and trying unsuccessfully to coax down another strand of hair to cover the bruise, he sighed. "We'd better get in there before she sees Ray and thinks we're _both_ dead."

 

           Peter could hear Ray's earnest voice as he bounded up the stairs to the TV room. "It's just a _little_ break, Mrs. Venkman. And Peter's fine, really. Just a bump on the head—"

 

           "He's right, Mom. Just a bump on the head," Peter called out cheerfully as he stepped into the room. Margaret turned immediately, her eyes flying to the bandage and very evident bruise on her son's forehead. He saw her face pale as she took in the damage and no doubt magnified it ten-fold in her mind. "I'm okay, Mom," he said carefully. "Really."

 

           Her eyes never wavering from Peter's face, she walked across the room, then stopped in front of him. Without a word, she put her arms around him and hugged him tightly. Biting his lip, Peter gathered her in, holding her protectively.

 

           "I'm okay, Mom," he whispered. "It looks worse than it is."

 

           Pulling back, Margaret studied his bruised face. "Even if it's only half as bad as it looks, that would be bad enough," she observed. But her voice was steady and Peter could feel her body relax a fraction. Raising a hand, she gently fingered the puffy bruise protruding from under the gauze. "Does a headache go along with this?"

 

           He grinned, relaxing himself. "I'm afraid so," he admitted.

 

           "You're not going out on any more jobs today," she said sternly, making it a statement not a question.

 

           Over his mother's shoulder, Peter could see Egon watching them both, his lips twitching. "No more jobs today," he agreed.

 

           Margaret nodded, satisfied, then leaned forward and gave him another squeeze. "Why don't you lie down for a while?" she said quietly. "I'll bring you some aspirin." Turning, she let her steady gaze rest on Stantz as well. "Did the hospital give you any pain medication, Ray?"

 

           "No, ma'am. They just told me to take aspirin if it hurt."

 

           "Does it hurt?"

 

           The auburn-haired man blinked. "Well, yeah, a little."

 

           "Then you go lie down, too, and I'll bring you some aspirin as well," she ordered.

 

           Sensing that the worst was over Peter slipped over to Ray's side and put a hand on his good arm, urging him out the door. "Come on, Ray. Time to put our feet up and let Mom wait on us." As they passed Margaret, he leaned over and winked. "You know, usually when Ray and I break something the guys just let us fend for ourselves. This could be _fun."_

 

           Margaret gave her son a steely look. "You may end up fending for yourself yet, young man."

 

           "She's just kidding, Ray," he said cheerfully. "If we play our cards right, we might even be able to stretch this out for two or three days."

 

           Egon watched Margaret as Ray and Peter disappeared through the doorway. Although she had appeared completely in control when Peter was in the room, her mouth tightened as soon as he was gone. She must have sensed Egon's eyes on her because she turned to meet his gaze. "Does this happen often?" she asked quietly.

 

           Spengler hesitated an instant before answering. "It does happen occasionally." Taking the few steps to her side, he added gently, "He really is all right, Margaret."

 

           She nodded. "I know he is. This time." Then she turned abruptly to leave the room. "I'd better get that aspirin."

 

*****

 

 

 

           Egon blinked his eyes open in the dark, instantly alert, and wondered what it was that had disturbed his sleep. He heard Peter tossing fitfully in the bed next to his and knew immediately. Sitting up, he fumbled for his glasses, settled them on his nose, then turned on the light next to his bed.

 

           Venkman gave a little moan and threw an arm over his eyes.

 

           "Peter?" Keeping his voice low, Spengler tossed his covers back and sat up. "Are you all right?"

 

           With a sigh, the psychologist slowly lowered his arm and squinted painfully at Spengler. "Didn't mean to wake you."

 

           "You didn't. Are you all right?" he repeated.

 

           "Those aspirin didn't last too long."

 

           Egon nodded sympathetically. Peter had been fighting a massive headache ever since they got back to the firehouse and from the looks of him now it hadn't gotten any better. "I'll get you some more," he whispered, and made his way quietly across the room to the bathroom.

 

           When Peter had settled back down, Egon realized sleep had eluded him for the time being and decided to try a cup of herbal tea to lull himself back to sleep. Remembering the presence of their houseguest, he grabbed his robe before heading for the kitchen.

 

           He wasn't really surprised to find the lights on and Margaret Venkman sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of _her_. She looked up as he entered. "You, too?" she asked with a wan smile.

 

           He returned the smile. "I thought some hot tea might help."

 

           "So did I," she said dryly. "There's a whole pot of it on the stove."

 

           Egon poured himself a cup of tea in silence, then joined Margaret at the table. Sensing her need to talk, he sipped at the hot liquid and waited.

 

           "I don't think I've ever seen Peter so happy," she said suddenly. Her voice was always soft and filled with warmth when she talked about her son. "He seems so settled and...content." She raised her eyes to meet Egon's as if searching for confirmation.

 

           The blond man nodded. "He is. I believe he really is content with his life and what he's doing." He smiled in fond recollection. "There was a time I wasn't sure I would ever be able to say that."

 

           Margaret nodded her understanding. There was a time I wouldn't have _believed_ it. But he is happy," she continued, as if talking to herself. "Happier than I've ever seen him." She took a sip of her tea and gave Egon a considering look. "You know, all a mother really wants for her children is for them to be healthy and happy. We can't ask for much more." She dropped her eyes then and gazed into the depths of her cup as if trying to find some answers there. "I know Peter's happy with his life, and believe me, Egon, that means the world to me. But there are times," she continued softly, "when I wish he was still back at Columbia, tucked away in some nice, safe lab doing nice, safe research." Then she raised her eyes and sent Egon a stem look. "And you are _never_ to repeat that to my son."

 

           Egon covered her hand with his and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. "I know how much this afternoon upset you, Margaret. I'm not going to lie to you; our work can be dangerous. We all try to look out for each other, but sometimes things happen."

 

           "Like today."

 

           He nodded. "Like today."

 

           Turning her hand under his, Margaret returned the pressure. "I read that interview he did with _Psychology Today_."

 

           Despite the abrupt change in subject, Egon smiled, remembering how excited Peter had been about that interview. Venkman was a natural PR man for the team and had appeared in such magazines as _Celebrity_ , _Ghost_ and _Spooks Illustrated_ on several occasions. But being asked to appear in the pages of _Psychology Today_ had been one of the proudest moments of his life. Many people only knew Peter Venkman as a Ghostbuster and didn't realize his first doctorate—and the one he was most proud of—was in psychology. The other magazines wanted to interview Peter Venkman, the Ghostbuster; but _PT_ had wanted to interview Peter Venkman, the _psychologist._

 

           "They said he could have been one of the top researchers in his field if he hadn't left it to become a Ghostbuster," Margaret said, her tone almost wistful. "Egon, do you think, if he had stayed at Columbia...?"

 

           "That he would have been happy in research?" It was a fair question and Egon gave her a fair answer, based on the Peter Venkman he knew and loved. "For a time. He was an excellent researcher, and his ideas and theories were both innovative and exciting. But in that kind of atmosphere, there are always politics. You have to play by other peoples' rules to get grants, special funding, lab space, project approval." The physicist chuckled softly. "And Peter has never been one to play by other peoples' rules. He was already getting restless when we formed Ghostbusters. I don't think he could have stuck it out much longer."

 

           The woman seemed to digest that for a moment, then nodded, a little sigh escaping her lips. "Not what I wanted to hear," she admitted, "but pretty much what I expected." She smiled faintly. "Looks like my son has found his niche in life, hasn't he?"

 

           "What we do is important, Margaret," Egon said seriously. "People depend on us and they turn to us when there's nowhere else to turn."

 

           "I know what you do is important, Egon," Margaret said quickly. "I know you boys risk your lives every time you go on a job and I know you've _saved_ innocent lives. I'm so proud of you all for what you're doing."

 

           "But you'd like it a lot better," Spengler added, ducking his head to catch her eye, "if Peter didn't fall through ceilings on our busts."

 

           Peter's mother nodded. "Yes, Egon, I would like it a lot better if my son didn't fall through ceilings—or off warehouse roofs."

 

           Egon sat up abruptly, his eyes widening. Peter would have never... He closed his eyes briefly. "Ray..."

 

           "Don't blame Ray." Margaret's gaze was unwavering as she forced Egon to meet her eyes. "Apparently he didn't know about the little 'arrangement' you and my son have about keeping me in the dark."

 

           There were perhaps a dozen responses Egon could have made at that point, but all he said was, "I'm sorry."

 

           Mrs. Venkman was not impressed. "That's all you have to say for yourself? My son falls off a roof, ends up in the hospital with a concussion and a broken arm, and no one bothers to tell me?" She leaned forward suddenly, grey eyes sparking. "I'm not Charlie Venkman, Egon. I'm not chasing around the country with no forwarding address. You _know_ where I am three hundred and sixty-five days a year. I've _always_ made sure Peter knows where I am because I believe he should always know where at least one of his parents is." Her anger spent, she settled back into her chair again, but although her face was composed, Spengler saw her knuckles were white as she gripped her cup.

 

           Egon took a moment before answering, knowing that nothing he said would excuse in Margaret Venkman's mind what he and Peter had done. "Peter's life was in no danger," he said carefully, raising a hand when the woman opened her mouth. "Please, Margaret, hear me out." He waited until she nodded, then continued, "You need to understand that Peter worries about you as much as you worry about him. And neither one of us has any intention of unnecessarily alarming you—or my mother— every time one of us suffers a minor injury on the job."

 

           One of Margaret's eyebrows quirked. "So this little 'arrangement' includes your mother as well?"

 

           The physicist nodded, his eyes solemn. "And I would appreciate it if you didn't mention that when she comes over tomorrow." Pushing his cup aside, Egon rested his forearms on the table. "Margaret, I understand your anger—and your resentment—and I'm sorry. But calling to tell you Peter had a concussion and a broken arm would have accomplished nothing except to upset you." He paused. "And it would certainly have upset Peter."

 

           There was a long silence during which Margaret studied Egon's face without giving any hint as to what might be going on behind her sharp grey eyes. Finally, her tense features relaxed somewhat and a resigned sigh escaped her lips. It was as if she knew, no matter what she said, that her son would continue to try to protect her from anything he didn't want her to worry about—and that Egon would continue to aid and abet. Dropping a hand on his wrist, she squeezed lightly. "Look after him, Egon," she said softly.

 

           A fond smile touched the blond man's face. "I always do...as much as he lets me."

 

           An answering smile touched the woman's face. "He can be stubborn, can't he?" Then she gave the arm under her hand a pat. "I'm glad you're his friend, Egon. You've been good for him, you and Ray both."

 

           "He's been good for us, too," Spengler retorted immediately, then leveled a stem look at her. "And you are _never_ to tell your son I said that."

 

           Margaret Venkman laughed, a soft, musical laugh that made Egon's smile broaden. "It's all right, dear," she said, her eyes twinkling. "I think he already knows."

 

*****

 

           Peter Venkman blinked his eyes open, squinting in discomfort as the sun hit him squarely in the face. Must be late for the sun to be that high, he realized. Raising his head, he stared blearily at his bedside clock, surprised to find that it was nearly eleven. A quick check of the bedroom showed that Egon and Winston's beds were neatly made and that Ray was still curled up under his blankets. The other two must have decided to let them sleep off the effects of their little mishap yesterday.

 

           Sighing contentedly, Peter was just about to burrow a little deeper into his blankets when a soft moan from across the room brought his head up again. "Ray? You okay?"

 

           The occultist sat up slowly and ran a hand through his already rumpled hair. "Wow," he exclaimed, "I'm stiff all over!"

 

           Venkman cautiously pushed himself up and grunted at the various aches and pains that assaulted him from every muscle in his body. "Wow," he muttered, "me, too." Looking over at the younger man, he grinned. "Hey, Ray, race you to the shower."

 

           "Race me?" Ray eased his legs over the side of the bed and threw him a rueful look. "I don't think so, Peter." Then he raised his head and sniffed the air experimentally. "What's that great smell?"

 

           Peter tilted his head and sniffed likewise, an appreciative smile spreading across his features. "That, my boy, is the smell of my mom baking Christmas cookies."

 

           Ray's face lit up with delight. "Christmas cookies? Hey, that's great." His hazel eyes took on a faraway look and his tone turned wistful. "I used to help my mom make cookies for Christmas. She always let me add those little sprinkles. The little silver balls were my favorite. I'd cut out snowmen cookies and use them to make the eyes and mouth..."

 

           Stantz' voice trailed off and Peter's eyes shot to the younger man's face. Ray, however, was oblivious to the brief, intense scrutiny by the psychologist. Ignoring the protest of his muscles, Venkman tossed his blankets back and got to his feet. "Mom always used to let me do that, too, but I was never very good at it," he said casually, carefully straightening his back. "Maybe you can do a better job of it than I did."

 

           Ray looked at him hopefully. "You think she could use some help?"

 

           The psychologist ruffled the auburn hair as he shuffled past Ray on the way to the bathroom. "Why don't we ask her?"

 

*****

 

           A hot shower helped both of them, and Peter could feel his muscles loosening up as he and Ray sauntered into the kitchen. His mother was hard at work, the entire table and most of the counter space covered with freshly baked cookies, baking supplies, and dough waiting to be rolled and cut out.

 

           "It smells great in here!" Ray enthused.

 

           Margaret looked up, her eyes immediately going to her son's face. Peter could see her taking in the bruise he had once again tried unsuccessfully to hide with some creative hair combing, but to her credit, she said nothing about it. Instead she welcomed both men with a warm smile. "How are you two feeling this morning?"

 

           "Aces," Peter retorted brightly, and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Smells good in here," he commented and deftly snatched a warm cookie from a plate on the counter.

 

           "Yeah, it smells like Christmas," Ray said happily, his eyes taking in everything at once. "My mom used to bake cookies just like those for Christmas."

 

           Peter poured himself a cup of coffee and tried to catch his mother's eye. But Margaret was busy rolling out dough, oblivious to his efforts.

 

           "And I'll bet you helped her, didn't you?" she asked conversationally.

 

           "I sure did."

 

           "I used to let Peter put on the sprinkles," she said, glancing at her son with twinkling eyes, "but he wasn't very good at it, poor dear. He usually ended up pouring half the bottle onto one cookie." She looked back at Ray and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Confidentially, I think he did it on purpose so I'd let him go out and play. I don't think he really liked baking cookies that much."

 

           Stantz shrugged amiably. "I always thought it was kind of fun."

 

           "You did? Well, then maybe you'd like to help me. I can't quite keep up with the decorating _and_ the rolling _and_ the cutting out."

 

           Ray's eyes lit up. "Really? Sure, I'd love to help, Mrs. Venkman." He waved at his left arm suspended in a sling. "I've only got one hand, but—"

 

           "One hand is all it takes, dear," Margaret said cheerfully, winking at Peter. "Providing you have the right touch."

 

           "Which I obviously didn't," Peter interjected, contriving to sound appropriately hurt. But all he got for his trouble was a stern look from his mother. Funny, he mused, nibbling at a cookie, he often got that same look from Egon when he tried those tactics.

 

           "Mom always said I was real good at the decorating part," Ray offered.

 

           "Then it's settled." The woman pointed at one of the wall cupboards. "I bought some of those little silver balls yesterday. Would you get them out for me, Ray?"

 

           As Stantz rummaged happily in the cupboard for the decorations, Peter sat his coffee down and gave his mother a quick hug. "Have I told you lately that I love you?" he whispered.

 

           "Yes, but not nearly often enough," she retorted and gave him a squeeze. "Now get out of here and let the experts work."

 

           "Yes, ma'am." Venkman snagged another cookie from the plate, retrieved his cup of coffee, and beat a hasty retreat.

 

 

 

           Egon looked around from his conversation with Janine as Peter came down the stairs. His eyes immediately swept over the younger man's face and he noted with satisfaction that he no longer saw signs of pain there. Ray had peacefully slept the night through, but Venkman had had a restless night, no doubt due to his headache. Peter appeared to be moving a little stiffly this morning—no surprise considering the fall he had taken—but otherwise seemed fine. Beside him, he heard Janine gasp.

 

           "Oh, Doctor V, that must've been some fall."

 

           "Yes, Janine," Peter answered airily, "it was spectacular. I couldn't have done it any better if I'd rehearsed it."

 

           Talented _and_ modest," the redhead said drolly.

 

           Like Peter, Janine was always ready with a comeback, but Egon had noted the spark of concern in her eyes when she first saw Peter. "Is Ray up?" he asked.

 

           Venkman grinned. "Up and helping Mom bake cookies. She finally found someone who knows how to handle sprinkles."

 

           Egon blinked. "What?"

 

           But the psychologist had already turned and was staring up the stairs, his grin fading.

 

           "Peter?" Spengler laid a hand on Venkman's arm. "Is something wrong?"

 

           When Peter turned back, the usual sparkle in his emerald eyes had faded. "You know," he sak quietly, "Ray's always so cheerful, so darned upbeat, that sometimes I forget."

 

           "Forget what?"

 

           "We're really all he has. I mean, you've got your mom and Winston's got his family and I've got my folks, but Ray...he's got his Aunt Lots, but that's not the same." Peter's eyes locked with Egon's, his voice softening, "We really are all he's got."

 

           Spengler nodded with complete understanding. Sometimes he forgot, too. "I know," he said solemnly. "But he _does_ have us."

 

           The psychologist looked at him a moment longer, then shot him a quick grin. "Darn right he does." He turned to Janine, "So, beautiful, anything on the agenda for today?"

 

           "We were just discussing that, Peter," Egon intervened. "I don't think we should take any calls while you and Ray are still recovering—"

 

           But Peter waved that aside. "I'm not 'recovering' from anything, Spengs. I've got a bump on the head and some bruises. That's never stopped any of us from going on busts."

 

           "That's very true," Egon said levelly, "but I think that while Margaret is here perhaps we should try to...curtail the number of jobs we take."

 

           The brown-haired man gave him a look that was pure exasperation. "Egon, you think I _like_ taking jobs while Mom's here? You think I don't know how upset she was yesterday?" Venkman sighed heavily, started to run his hand through his hair, then stopped, wincing. "I don't like it any better than you do," he continued in a quieter tone. "But I don't see where we have much choice if we want to keep the wolf from the door. That little pay check we got yesterday didn't even put a dent in our overhead. If we don't get our power bill paid in full pretty soon, they're going to cut us off—and you know what that means."

 

           Spengler sighed. The containment unit. "Yes, I know what that means."

 

           Venkman looked at the secretary. "Screen the calls, Janine. Ray can't handle a thrower, but we'll take any jobs that three of us can manage." He paused, then glanced at Egon and added, "Or anything that can't wait."

 

           The physicist nodded acquiescence. If it came down to a situation where lives were in danger, they would have no choice.

 

           "Oh, Peter, I almost forgot; I was going to put this on your desk." Janine plucked an envelope off her desk and handed it to Peter. "It's from your father."

 

           "Dad?" Peter's face lit up as he snatched the envelope from her hand, and Egon watched his reaction with complete understanding. In all their years together, he had never known Peter's father to remember to call, visit, or even send his son a card at Christmas. Maybe this year, finally...

 

           The younger man started to tear open the envelope, then stopped, his face dropping, then hardening.

 

           Egon frowned. "Peter?"

 

           Venkman's expressive eyes were shuttered when he finally raised them to look at Egon. "Check out the postmark," he said shortly.

 

           Spengler took the envelope, adjusted his glasses and read, "New Orleans—"

 

           "Check out the date," Peter interrupted.

 

           Egon opened his mouth, then abruptly closed it again. "Oh."

 

           "Yeah, 'oh.'" Venkman took the envelope back, smacking the offensive postmark in disgust. "This thing was mailed over _six months ago._ It probably fell behind the counter in some post office between here and New Orleans and somebody just found it. Dad's not in New Orleans anymore. For all I know he could be in Samoa by now." For an instant the shutters dropped and Egon saw the raw disappointment in Peter's eyes. "You know, I thought that maybe—just this once—he'd remember..." Then the mask was once again firmly in place and Egon could hear that 'Christmas-is-just-another-day-to-me' tone in his friend's voice. "Why should this year be different from any other?" Then he shrugged and turned a deliberately cheerful face to Egon. "So your mom's coming over today to play with my mom?"

 

           Acquiescing to Peter's not-so-subtle attempt to change the subject, Egon nodded, his mouth tilting in a smile. Margaret and his mother had met only once before, when both had been visiting their sons at Columbia, but had hit it off immediately and had kept in touch through the years. The two women planned to spend the afternoon shopping and then all of them—including Janine—were going out for dinner at a restaurant personally selected by Peter.

 

           Remembering his conversation with Margaret last night, Egon leveled a steady look at his friend. "I think we need to talk, Peter."

 

           Venkman's eyebrows rose a fraction. "About?"

 

           Taking his arm, Egon guided the psychologist toward his office. "About mothers and secrets...and secrets that aren't secrets any longer..."

 

*****

 

           Ray slid the last present in place under the Christmas tree in the TV room and stood back, his face glowing with happiness at the festive scene. This tree was the most beautiful one they had ever had, maybe the most beautiful one he had ever seen. The whole firehouse, in fact, was decorated top to bottom, filled with the smell of evergreen, the sound of Christmas music playing on the stereo—and the warmth of family.

 

           He smiled at the brightly twinkling lights on the tree. All the trappings of Christmas were great and the holiday never failed to fill him with delight, but that wasn't the best part of this Christmas. The best part was that Peter actually seemed to be enjoying it. He could never remember seeing his friend so happy at this time of the year.

 

           Wandering over to the window, he gazed outside at the drifting flakes of snow and sighed with contentment. If the snow just lasted a few more days they would even have a White Christmas. It was going to be perfect.

 

           The sudden pressure of a warm arm dropping across his shoulders made him turn his head. Peter had entered the room unheard and joined him at the window, surveying the scene. "Not bad," the psychologist observed casually.

 

           "It's beautiful," Ray enthused.

 

           Venkman shrugged, but tightened his arm. "Yeah, I guess it is at that...as long as I don't have to go out in it," he added with a grin.

 

           "It's so great having your mom here. She's really neat."

 

           "Yeah, she is pretty neat," Peter agreed, smiling.

 

           "You're really lucky having a mom like her," Ray said softly.

 

           Venkman turned toward him, lifted his arm and gave the auburn hair a little tug. "I'm lucky in a lot of ways," Peter said seriously, meeting and holding Ray's gaze. Then he grinned, green eyes twinkling. "And Mom thinks you're pretty neat yourself."

 

           Ray could feel himself blushing. "She's just saying that because—"

 

           "—it's true," Peter finished. "My mom doesn't say anything she doesn't mean, kiddo." Dropping his hand back onto Ray's shoulder, he gave it a little squeeze. "She's usually right, too."

 

           Smiling with pure happiness, Ray leaned against Peter, sighing in contentment when his friend shifted to pull him closer. "I'm really glad she's here. It's going to make Christmas even better this year. It's almost like having..." He stopped himself and felt Peter turn toward him.

 

           "Like what?" Venkman asked gently. "Like having a real family?"

 

           Stantz nodded.

 

           "Hey. Look at me, Tex." The psychologist tugged him around so they were facing one another. "You've _got_ a family. You, me, Egon, even Winston—we're _family._ We may not be related in blood, but in every single way that's important, we _are_ family." He paused, his intense green eyes dark with unfeigned sincerity. "It's important to me that you know that, Ray."

 

           The occultist felt warmth spread through his chest. Peter didn't get serious often, but when he did it usually proved to be worth the wait. "I do know that, Peter," he said immediately and gave the older man an impulsive hug which was instantly returned. "I'm lucky in a lot of ways, too," he whispered. Venkman tightened his arms briefly, then released him.

 

           "You really like Christmas, don't you, Ray?"

 

           Stantz tilted his head to look up at the psychologist. "Sure."

 

           "Do you remember many Christmases with your folks?" Then before Ray could answer, Peter gave his head an impatient shake. "I'm sorry, pal. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

 

           "No, it's okay," Stantz said quickly. "I don't mind. They're good memories, Peter. It's kind'a nice to share them." He hesitated a moment, then asked tentatively, "You don't have a lot of good memories about Christmas, do you?"

 

           The brown head shook. "Not many."

 

           "It'll be different this year, Peter," Ray insisted earnestly. "This Christmas will be a good memory for you, I just know it."

 

           The psychologist's lean face softened and an affectionate smile touched his lips. "I think you may be right, Ray."

 

           "Pete. Ray."

 

           Both men turned at the sound of Winston's voice. The black man was standing in the doorway, already dressed in his jumpsuit. "We've got a call."

 

           Ray's face fell. He usually enjoyed busts, but he had been looking forward to an evening of hot chocolate and popcorn in front of the TV with his friends and Peter's mom.

 

           "Can't this one wait?" Peter sighed.

 

           Zeddemore shook his head. "Not according to Egon."

 

           Ray and Peter traded a look. "This does not sound good," Venkman murmured and the two of them followed Winston downstairs.

 

           Egon was suiting up as the three thudded down the stairs. "One that can't wait, Spengs?" Peter asked as he headed for his own locker. The physicist looked grim and that wasn't a good sign.

 

           "I'm afraid not, Peter. From the description, it sounds like that Class Five we lost in Queens last week."

 

           Venkman grimaced as he shrugged into his uniform. He remembered that particular ghost all too well; its most notable feature had been a set of wicked teeth—which it had used to almost take a chunk out of Peter—and its most memorable characteristic its nasty disposition. They all hated it when a ghost got away, and this one had worried them—someone could really get hurt with one like that on the loose.

 

           "Where is it, Egon?" Ray asked, struggling into his own jumpsuit with Winston's help.

 

           "A chemical research facility," Spengler answered, and he didn't seem pleased.

 

           Peter grabbed his proton pack and turned around, frowning. "I don't like those places, Egon. Remember what happened to us at Alabaster Chemicals."

 

           "What did happen to you at Alabaster Chemicals?"

 

           All four Ghostbusters turned at the quiet question to find Margaret Venkman standing at the bottom of the stairs. Behind her, Janine caught Peter's eye and raised her shoulders in helpless apology.

 

           "We got stiffed on the bill," the psychologist said promptly, his expression daring his friends to contradict him. "You just can't trust chemists." As the others hurried to Ecto-1, Peter paused in front of his mother and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "This might take a while. Don't wait dinner, okay?"

 

           Worry aged Margaret's face in a matter of seconds. "Be careful, sweetheart."

 

           Peter donned his brightest smile. "I'm always careful." He shot a quick, pleading look at their secretary, who nodded her understanding and stepped down by the older woman's side.

 

           "You promised to give me your eggnog recipe, Margaret," Janine reminded her. "Why don't we go to the kitchen and try it out? Then we can all have some when they get back."

 

           "Great idea, Janine," Peter said enthusiastically and winked at his mother. "You know how I love your eggnog."

 

           Margaret managed a smile for her son. "I'll have some made when you boys get back."

 

           The sound of Ecto roaring to life made him rush. "Gotta go, Mom. Be back as soon as we can." With one last reassuring smile, he turned and sprinted toward Ecto.

 

           Margaret watched as the converted ambulance disappeared out the doors, siren blaring and tires squealing. After a moment she felt a small hand on her arm.

 

           "He'll be okay, Margaret," Janine said confidently. They all look out for each other."

 

           Margaret nodded, then turned to study the younger woman. "It must be difficult for you," she observed quietly, "watching Egon go off like this day after day."

 

           Janine's eyes traveled to the open doorway and lingered there. "You never get used to it," she admitted, "but it's what they do. Egon wouldn't be happy doing anything else...and neither would Peter."

 

           The secretary'seyes locked with hers, and the two shared a moment of complete understanding. "Come on, Janine," Margaret said briskly, giving the younger woman a pat on the arm. "Let's go make that eggnog. It'll keep us both occupied."

 

*****

 

           Peter Venkman studied the layout of the chemical research facility with no enthusiasm whatsoever. Chemistry had never been his strong suit, but he knew enough to be thoroughly cautious in a situation like this... despite his little miscalculation at Alabaster Chemicals. He finished snapping on his proton pack and turned when Egon walked over from talking to the warehouse manager.

 

           "According to Mr. Reynolds, the Class Five is moving all through the building. It terrorized the employees, wreaked havoc in one of the labs and nearly attacked him as he escaped." The physicist's face was grim. "This could be dangerous, gentlemen. If the wrong substances become mingled, we could have an explosive situation."

 

           "Uh, explosive, Egon?" Peter frowned, swatting irritably at the snowflakes swirling around his face.

 

           Spengler's somber eyes rested on the psychologist. "Explosive, Peter. We're dealing with some very volatile substances here, most of them still in the development stages. They are extremely unstable in their present states."

 

           "Swell," Venkman muttered. "Volatile and unstable. Just the way I like 'em."

 

           "Wow," Ray breathed, eyes wide. "This could be great!"

 

           Venkman shot him a sharp look. "You can just wipe that grin off your face. Ray. You can't even handle a thrower and you're sure as hell not going up against this nasty one-handed."

 

           "I can handle a thrower if I have to," the auburn-haired man insisted. "And I can hold a PKE meter and provide back-up."

 

           "No, you—"

 

           "Peter." Egon's quiet bass earned him a frown from the psychologist. "I'm afraid we don't have a choice. Our best stratagem is to split up into teams and begin a sweep from the north and south entrances. That way we can work toward the middle and ensure the ghost doesn't escape." He paused, seeing the stubborn defiance in Venkman's eyes. "I don't want anyone going in alone."

 

           "He's right, m'man." Winston moved up beside him. "It's going to take a full team on this one. Even if Ray can't handle a thrower a hundred percent, we're going to need him." He nodded at Ray, throwing the younger man a smile. "You can come with me, homeboy."

 

           Peter clipped his communicator on his belt with a scowl. "No, if he's going in, he's going with me." Levelling a stern look at Stantz, he added, "And you'd better stick to me like krazy-glue, you got it?"

 

           "Got it, Peter," Ray promised, but he was already happily adjusting his proton pack one-handed and anticipating the adventure ahead.

 

           Peter traded a resigned look with Egon, who clapped him on the shoulder. "Be careful. Both of you. And stay in touch."

 

           Venkman glanced over his shoulder at the enormous, sterile-looking building awaiting them, then returned his somber gaze to the physicist. "You, too," he said grimly. "I've got a bad feeling about this job."

 

           The blond man nodded his agreement. "Just everyone be careful with those chemicals."

 

           When the others all turned their heads to look at him, Peter straightened defensively. "What's everyone looking at me for?"

 

           Spengler gazed at him over his glasses. "Because, Peter, unlike your mother, we do know what happened at Alabaster Chemicals."

 

           "Anything, Ray?" Peter fingered his proton rifle nervously as they carefully worked their end of the extensive building, checking all the labs and offices that off-shot from the main storage area. There were far too many unknown substances around here for his comfort, and the words 'unstable' and 'volatile' kept playing through his mind.

 

           Stantz was by his side, intently studying the PKE meter in his good hand. "That Class Five must have been all through the building, Peter. He's left residue ectoplasm everywhere. It's distorting the readings."

 

           "I just love messy ghosts," Venkman muttered, his eyes sweeping the area ahead. "And I especially love messy ghosts with _teeth._ Isn't this a great job, Ray?"

 

           But his sarcasm was wasted on the occultist. Ray's face was shining with excitement as he played the PKE meter around, seeking readings. "It sure is!"

 

           Before Peter could think of an appropriate response to that, the communicator on his belt crackled to life. "Peter. Ray. We've located the Class Five."

 

           Venkman plucked the radio from his belt. "On our way, Egon," he responded crisply. "Come on, Ray, let's hit it. They're gonna need help."

 

           The two men, however, had reached only the midpoint of the facility when a muffled explosion rocked the building. Peter skidded to a halt, his face draining. "What the hell...?" He snatched up his radio and held it to his mouth. "Egon! Winston! Are you all right? What's going on?"

 

           "Get out of here, Peter." It was Egon's voice and he was shouting. "We trapped the ghost, but there was an accident. You and Ray _get out now_!"

 

           "Are you two all right—"

 

           "We're fine," Spengler snapped. "You must vacate the premises immediately—"

 

           "Damn it, Pete, haul ass outta there!"

 

           It was Winston's brusque order that got him moving. Venkman grabbed Ray's good arm and propelled him back the way they came. "Move it, Ray. I think its Apocalypse _now._ " Another explosion sounded and Peter began to smell the rapidly spreading fumes of burning chemicals. _Shit, shit, **shit**_ , he thought as he sprinted for the exit with Ray firmly in his grasp. _Egon, Winston, you guys haul some ass of your own._

 

           Peter hit the exit door with his shoulder, throwing himself and Ray outside into the cold, swirling snow. Without pausing, the two pounded around the comer of the facility and began running toward the south end where Egon and Winston had entered. Ominous black smoke was rolling out the windows and Peter began to frantically search the crowd of employees and curious on-lookers for their friends.

 

           "Peter, look! It's Winston!"

 

           Venkman snapped around at Ray's yell, instantly spotting Zeddemore. The black man was on his knees just outside the building, coughing violently to rid himself of the smoke in his lungs. The two men rushed over to him, Peter noting nervously that Egon was nowhere in sight.

 

           Stantz reached the downed man first, dropping to his knees and supporting Zeddemore with his good arm. "Winston, are you all right?" he asked anxiously. "What happened?"

 

           Venkman knelt in front of Winston and laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. Zeddemore looked like he had taken a lungful of smoke, but was otherwise all right. "Winston," he said carefully, struggling to keep his voice steady, "where's Egon?"

 

           The older man's head snapped up and he stared at Venkman with red-rimmed eyes. "Egon?" he rasped. "He was right behind me!"

 

           The psychologist threw an alarmed look at the burning building. _Dear God..._ He shot to his feet and shrugged out of his proton pack, dropping it to his feet. "Stay with Winston," he ordered, brushing past Ray.

 

           But the occultist jumped to his feet. "You mean Egon's still in there? We have to get him out—"

 

           "You have to stay here," Venkman snapped, stopping Stantz with a hand on his chest. "Damn it, Ray, I mean it," he said fiercely.

 

           "Peter, you can't go in there alone—"

 

           "You can't see a thing in there, Pete." Winston coughed painfully, then took another gulp of air. "Give me a second to catch my breath. I know the layout; I'll go back in."

 

           "You're in no shape, buddy," the psychologist said firmly, pushing Zeddemore back down when he tried to rise. "You stay put, and Ray—you make sure the medics check him out." He could hear the sirens of approaching emergency vehicles, but knew they wouldn't get here in time to help Egon. Pausing only long enough to give Ray a quick, reassuring clap on the shoulder, he spun away and headed for the burning building at a dead run.

 

           The two remaining Ghostbusters watched Peter dive heedlessly into the blazing warehouse. Winston coughed again, filling his lungs with new air. "Dammit, I should've kept better track of Egon. I thought he was right behind me!"

 

           The younger man squeezed his shoulder. "Peter will find him," Ray insisted, although his voice carried a tremor. "Don't worry; they'll be okay."

 

           Zeddemore reached up and immediately patted the hand on his shoulder. "Sure they will," he returned, with a great deal more confidence than he felt. He should have never let himself get separated from the physicist. Now Egon and Peter were both in danger.

 

           Snowflakes were whitening both men's uniforms and dampening their hair, but neither noticed. With Ray's help, Winston climbed to his feet and they stared at the burning warehouse, searching anxiously for signs of their friends. Around them sirens blared as fire trucks screamed to a halt only yards away. Again, the commotion was barely noticed as the two Ghostbusters fixed all their worried attention on the self-destructing building.

 

           Suddenly Ray gasped. "Egon!"

 

           Zeddemore twisted around as Stantz took off at a run, his own eyes widening in relief. The blond physicist was stumbling around the comer of the warehouse. He appeared a little smudged from the smoke and was coughing, but he looked positively wonderful to Winston. Zeddemore sprinted after Stantz and realized with a sinking heart that Spengler was alone. Muttering a prayer under his breath, he joined Ray, who had flung his arms around the blond man.

 

           "Oh, Egon, you're all right! We were so worried about you!"

 

           "I'm fine, Ray." Spengler's voice was a croak, but his face sagged in relief when he spotted Zeddemore. "Winston, thank God. When we got separated, I wasn't sure—"

 

           "I know," the black man said immediately, gripping one thin arm. "I wasn't sure about you either." He looked around quickly for their missing team member. "Did you see Pete?" he asked carefully.

 

           Spengler's bloodshot eyes shot to his face. "Peter? Isn't he with you?"

 

           Ray pulled back with a gasp. "We thought you were still inside. He went in after you." His brown eyes flooded with panic. "Egon, he's still in there!"

 

           "He went in after—" If possible, Egon's already pale face drained so it was bloodless. "Oh, my god," he mumbled, and twisted around, his intention to dash back into the burning warehouse.

 

           Ray and Winston each made a grab for him, but it was a burly fire chief who grabbed him around the waist and hauled him back. "Whoa, buddy. You're not going anywhere. That's our job."

 

           The physicist struggled furiously in the powerful grip. "Let me go!" he demanded. "Peter's still in there!"

 

           "Someone's in there?" The fireman never released his grip on Spengler, but called sharply over his shoulder, "Reynolds, MacKnew, we've got a civilian in there! Get your gear and move in!" Turning back to Egon, he slowly released his tight grip, but planted himself stolidly in front of the taller man. "Don't make our job any tougher than it is, Doctor Spengler."

 

           "But Peter—"

 

           "We'll get to your buddy," the captain said firmly. "You guys bust ghosts; we bust fires." Seeing he finally had Egon's complete attention, he demanded, "Where did you see him last?"

 

           The blond man shot a look at Ray, but it was Winston who answered. "He went in at that door over there," he said quickly, pointing. "Five, maybe ten minutes ago."

 

           The two paramedics who had joined them nodded their understanding and took off at a run. The captain turned back to the three Ghostbusters.

 

           "We'll do everything we can," he promised levelly, "but you stay put. Got it?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned away and began barking orders into a hand-held radio.

 

           Winston turned his eyes on his two friends. Ray was staring at the burning building with the eyes of a shock victim. Egon's face was so white that flakes of snow provided no contrast to his skin. His face could have been that of a corpse if not for the anguish that burned in his eyes. As Zeddemore watched, Ray turned to the physicist and pressed his face to Spengler's shoulder. Egon immediately closed his arms around him, pulling the younger man to his chest. It was impossible to tell which man was shaking harder.

 

           Together the two stood like statues, backlit by the eerie light of the blazing fire and framed by the swirling snow. Without a word, Winston moved up behind them and laid a hand on Egon's shoulder, gripping it tightly. If Egon felt it, he gave no indication. Billowing smoke, crackling flames and the shouts of the fire fighters created a scene of barely controlled chaos, but the Ghostbusters were oblivious to the commotion that surrounded them. They were lost in the terrible, soul-numbing fear that any minute the paramedics would be bringing out Peter's body.

 

           It seemed like an eternity, but it could only have been minutes before Winston saw them. "Egon! Ray! Look!"

 

           Through the black, rolling smoke Egon saw them. Two paramedics stumbled out of the blazing building, a limp bundle supported between them. His hoarse voice caught in a gasp. "Peter!"

 

           Ray's head shot up and he raised a tear-stained face to the physicist. "P-Peter?"

 

           "They got him out, Raymond," Egon managed. "They got him—" His voice broke. But did they get to him in time? The three Ghostbusters pounded over to where the paramedics were feverishly working over the still form on the stretcher.

 

           Again, the fire captain intercepted them before they could burst through the tight knot of emergency personnel surrounding Venkman. As Egon tried to push past the fireman, he felt a strong hand grip his arm and pull him up short. He whirled around to yank his arm free, then froze at the somber face confronting him.

 

           "He wasn't breathing when they got to him," the officer reported. His voice was level and professional, but there was a flash of compassion in his steely blue eyes. "They're doing everything they can for him. Part of the ceiling collapsed on him and he was trapped in there. He took in a lot of smoke."

 

           "And fumes," Egon whispered, straining to catch a glimpse of the too-still figure on the ground.

 

           The fireman nodded grimly. "And fumes."

 

           Peter's face was hidden by an oxygen mask but Egon could see one of the paramedics tearing away the right sleeve of his jumpsuit as another fitted a brace around his ankle.

 

           "How badly..." Spengler squeezed his eyes shut briefly and forced himself to ask. "How badly was he burned?" The idea of Peter burned, disfigured...

 

           "Some first and second degree burns on one arm, his left ankle's broken, and he's got a possible concussion." Pausing, the fire chief levelled a solemn look at Egon. "He was one lucky son of a gun," he said quietly. "It's a miracle we got him out of there. A few more minutes and we wouldn't have had a chance of getting to him."   An ambulance backed into the area and the Ghostbusters were firmly ushered aside to make way. "They're taking him to Saint Vincent's."

 

           "I want to go with him," Spengler said immediately.

 

           The captain opened his mouth in automatic protest, but whatever he saw in Egon's eyes made him nod his head in reluctant agreement. "All right," he agreed. "But just one of you."

 

           Egon looked at Ray, whose shocked gaze had never left Peter. Stantz looked up at Spengler now and although there was terrible fear in his eyes, he insisted, "No, it's okay. You go, Egon. Don't leave him alone.

 

           Egon gave the younger man's arm a quick, reassuring squeeze, then strode to the ambulance. "Not for a minute," he promised, standing aside as the unconscious Venkman was efficiently loaded into the back of the vehicle. Suddenly a new thought intruded Spengler's benumbed mind. "Margaret! I have to call—"

 

           "We can do that from the hospital," Winston called out as he and Ray ran toward Ecto.

 

           With a brief bob of his head, Egon scrambled inside the ambulance.

 

*****

 

           Egon Spengler stared at the Styrofoam cup of ice chips in his hand as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. Winston had pressed it on him earlier, urging him to chew the ice to soothe his smoke-parched throat. With that in mind, he plucked out one small chip, put it in his mouth and listlessly chewed it, making small crunching noises. When it had melted, he stared blankly into the cup again.

 

           He would never, not for as long as he lived, forget that ambulance ride to the hospital. And he would never, not for as long as he lived, forget how Peter's heart had stopped during that ride. Spengler shot a surreptitious, guilty look at Ray, then returned his gaze to the melting ice. He hadn't told Ray about that. He never would. Nor would he ever tell Margaret.

 

           Margaret. Egon massaged his forehead with one unsteady hand. That may have been the hardest phone call he had ever had to make. The worst part was, he really had nothing to tell her. He hadn't known anything when they got to the hospital and Peter had been whisked away, and an hour later, they still knew nothing. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force away the possibilities that wanted to push themselves into his mind: irreparable brain damage from lack of oxygen, coma from the head injury, God only knew what effects from the fumes... _If only he hadn't gone in there after me!_

 

           "Don't, Egon."

 

           Spengler's eyes flew open at the sound of Ray's soft voice. Had he spoken out loud? The pressure of a warm hand on his arm brought his head around, and the look on Stantz' face answered his question. The younger man was obviously holding himself together with a massive effort, but his hand was firm on Egon's arm.

 

           "Peter would've gone back in for any one of us," Stantz insisted, but he wasn't quite able to control the tremor in his voice. "It wasn't your fault."

 

           No, perhaps it wasn't his fault. Not technically. But it _felt_ like his fault. Peter had gone back into that burning building for him. To save his life. And that may have cost Peter his own life.

 

           "Egon?" Ray gave his arm a little shake to gain his attention. "Please—" His voice broke and Stantz bit his lip, quickly dropping his eyes. "I told Peter," he whispered, "that this was going to be his best Christmas ever. What if—"

 

           "Don't, Ray." Quickly covering the younger man's hand with his chilled one, Egon squeezed it tightly. "No 'what ifs'. Please."

 

           The auburn head raised. Terrified brown eyes locked with his, and in them Egon could see the silent plea, _Make it all right._

 

           The blond man took an unsteady breath. "Ray..."

 

           "Egon?"

 

           Both men's heads snapped up at the sound of Margaret Venkman's too-soft voice. All three Ghostbusters rose automatically to their feet as Margaret and Janine paused in the doorway of the waiting room. Janine had her arm linked through the older woman's and the faces of both women were pale and pinched with fear. Spengler's long legs brought him to Margaret in seconds.

 

           "Any news?" Margaret asked, her voice barely a whisper.

 

           Egon shook his head. "Nothing yet. Margaret—" He stopped when his voice threatened to break. What could he say? _Margaret, your son is here because he tried to save my life._ Suddenly, he found himself engulfed in a warm, tight embrace.

 

           "Are you all right?"

 

           The genuine concern in her voice was almost too much for him to take. At first, all he could do was nod. Finally, in the most controlled voice he could manage, he answered, "Yes, of course."

 

           The woman pulled back slowly and Egon found himself scrutinized by a sharp, discerning gaze. Margaret gave his hand a squeeze and turned to Ray. The occultist fell into her maternal embrace with a muffled half-sob. She gathered him in protectively and murmured something Egon couldn't catch. Whatever she said made Ray nod his head and when she relaxed her grip, he pulled back, blinking rapidly.

 

           While Margaret spoke in a low voice to Winston, Janine slipped her arms around Egon and hugged him tightly. "Oh, Egon, what happened? How did Peter get hurt?" The physicist flinched and Janine quickly pulled back, looking at him questioningly.

 

           Aware of Margaret's eyes on him, Egon looked away, unable to meet her gaze. _Look after him, Egon._ He had done quite a job of that, hadn't he? "Peter went into a burning building," he said finally, in a voice as clear and steady as he could manage, "to save me."

 

           A small slender hand touched his arm. "It seems he succeeded," Mrs. Venkman said gently.

 

           Spengler shook his head. "I wasn't in the building," he said tightly, and abruptly turned away, walking over to the sole window in the waiting area to stare out into the growing darkness. In a few moments he sensed a smaller body next to his.

 

           "The waiting is always the hardest part," Margaret said softly, gently taking his hand in both hers. "None of us should have to wait alone, Egon." She tightened the pressure on his fingers. "Ray needs you—and so do I."

 

           At the mention of Ray's name, Egon shot a quick, guilty look over to where his young friend was standing, his shoulders sagged in misery, his wide, hazel eyes filled with fear. He caught his breath and swallowed painfully. "Margaret, I'm so sorry—"

 

           "Don't you dare apologize, Egon Spengler," Margaret interrupted sharply. "You would have done the same for my son. I know that." Her hand squeezed his. "And so does he."

 

           Finally, Spengler forced himself to meet her eyes. But instead of condemnation, he saw compassion, understanding—and a deep, paralyzing fear. Silently cursing himself for his selfishness, he placed an arm across her shoulders. "We'll wait together," he agreed quietly, and gently guided her back to where Ray, Winston and Janine were gathered.

 

           Margaret stared at the cooling cup of coffee in hand, took one last tentative sip, then made a face and slid it under her chair.

 

           "Pretty bad, huh?"

 

           She looked up at Winston's question. The black man was sitting opposite them, watching her with dark, understanding eyes. "Pretty awful," she agreed. There seemed to be nothing more to say and they lapsed again into silence. Her left hand was warm, encased in Egon's. Every now and then she gave it a little squeeze, but the blond man barely seemed to notice. He was staring blankly at the floor, the muscles of his lean face pulled tight with strain. Beside him, Janine had her arm linked through his and she had a protective gleam in her eye as if she were prepared to shield Egon from any and all threats, real or imagined. They had already been approached by a reporter brandishing a microphone and tape recorder and two or three autograph hounds, and Janine had flown into action. Margaret smiled faintly. She doubted these boys had known what they were getting when they hired Janine.

 

           Her smile faded as she turned her head to study Ray Stantz, who was huddled miserably on her other side. He looked like he was ready to fall apart.

 

           Sighing softly, she let her own gaze linger on a piece of bad art gracing the opposite wall. She remembered when she had first met Egon and Ray at Columbia. They had seemed odd friends for her son to take up with—the phlegmatic, self-assured, and completely practical Egon Spengler and the shy, innocent underclassman Ray Stantz. But through the years she could see the difference their friendship had made in Peter. Egon had lent stability to Peter's life, had extended to him a friendship that was solid, reliable and without strings. She also suspected that more than once the older man had offered guidance when it was needed and an understanding ear when Peter needed to sound off or talk out a problem. And Peter had given him trust—no small thing for her inherently wary son. Besides herself, Egon may have been the first person her son had ever truly and completely trusted in his life. She would forever be grateful to Egon for that.

 

           And Ray. Ray had brought a special kind of love into Peter's life. She always suspected that her son secretly wanted a little brother, someone he could look after and protect, someone he could call his own. He had found that someone in Ray Stantz. She knew of no one who needed to belong to someone more than Ray; and no one who needed to take on the responsibility of caring more than her son. It was obvious Ray looked up to Peter and adored him wholeheartedly; and it was Just as obvious to her that Peter loved this gentle young man like a brother.

 

           Margaret felt tears gathering in her eyes as her carefully constructed facade of control started to slip. Her marriage to Charlie Venkman would be categorized as the biggest mistake in her life if not for the fact that their brief union had given her Peter. He was all she had. She couldn't lose him. She just couldn't...

 

           She wasn't aware she was crying until she felt Egon slide an arm around her and pull her close. "It'll be all right, Margaret," he whispered in her ear. "You know what a fighter Peter is." He tightened his arm briefly. "He gets that from you, you know."

 

           "He'd better be fighting," she retorted, trying to mask the tremor in her voice, "if he knows what's good for him."

 

           Whatever Egon was going to say to that was interrupted when a black woman carrying a clipboard appeared in the doorway. "I'm Doctor Grayson," she announced. "And you're the Ghostbusters?"

 

           Everyone jumped to their feet at once. "I'm Egon Spengler," the blond man said immediately, "and this is Margaret Ellison, Peter Venkman's mother. Is Peter—"

 

           The physician held up her hand with a smile. "Doctor Venkman is out of danger."

 

           Margaret felt herself sag. Egon's arm was around her instantly and Ray grabbed her other arm. "I'm all right," she insisted with a shaky smile. "Really." Her eyes were on the woman's face, seeking answers. "My son?"

 

           "I'm sorry we took so long to get to you," Doctor Grayson apologized, "but we needed to run a number of tests on Doctor Venkman because of the chemicals he came in contact with. I happy to say there was no permanent damage." She waited until the cheering died down before continuing. "He did, however, suffer a concussion, first and second degree bums to his right arm and his left ankle is broken. But it was a clean, simple fracture, and I foresee no problems in its mending."

 

           "Is he conscious?" Margaret asked anxiously. "Can I see him?"

 

           "He regained consciousness a short time ago," the doctor replied and turned a little frown on Egon. "I'm not sure what happened on that bust of yours, but Peter is very worried about you, Doctor Spengler. He keeps asking for you, demanding to know if you're all right. He's quite agitated." She hesitated. "Ordinarily, I would permit only family in to see him—"

 

           "These men _are_ his family, Doctor," Margaret said quietly, but with a firmness in her voice that left no room for challenge.

 

           Grayson's dark eyes swept over Egon's blond coloring, Ray's auburn locks and Winston's dark skin. "Yes," she said dryly, "I see the resemblance. You can see him—but only two at a time and only for a few minutes. He needs rest. We're going to keep him for a couple of days to make sure he's healing property, but it's just precautionary." She motioned for them to follow. "He's right down the hall."

 

           They followed her a short distance down the busy hallway and stopped in front of Room 112. "I don't want you to be alarmed when you see him," she said, turning to face them. "The chemicals caused some irritation to his eyes—nothing permanent," she added hastily. "But we've applied medicated patches to ease the discomfort. He's still a little disoriented from the concussion, and his throat is sore, so don't let him talk too much and don't tire him out." With that final admonition, she gave them a brief smile and continued down the hallway.

 

           Margaret took Egon's hand. "He needs to know you're all right, Egon."

 

           Spengler hesitated, looking at Ray. The younger man nodded fervently. "Go on, Egon," he insisted. "You know how Peter is. He's probably worried sick. He doesn't know you got out okay."

 

           That settled, Margaret pushed the door open to her son's room and stepped inside, Egon in tow. The doctor told her not to be alarmed, but she stopped short at the first glimpse of her son, her hand going to her mouth to stifle a gasp. The first thing she saw were the bandages completely covering Peter's eyes. Then her eyes traveled to the heart monitor stationed next to her son's bed, the gauze covering the burns on his right arm and the IV tube attached to his other. _No permanent damage,_ no _permanent damage;_ she played it over and over in her mind like a litany. Egon squeezed her arm and she moved forward, stopping by the side of the bed. Spengler pulled a chair over and she sank down into it, then leaned over, gently brushed aside the heavy brown locks and placed a soft kiss on her son's forehead.

 

           Peter stirred, turning his face toward her. "Mom?" His voice was a raw rasp, barely a whisper, and she remembered his smoke-damaged throat.

 

           "I'm right here, sweetheart. Don't try to talk—"

 

           But Peter ignored her admonition. "Egon? The guys?" His voice nearly gave out, but his expression around the bandages was one of desperation. "I couldn't get to him—"

 

           "He's all right, Peter. He's here with me." She looked around for Egon, but he had already stepped forward.

 

           "I'm here, Peter. We're all okay."

 

           "Egon?" This time Peter's voice did give out, but he raised his left hand from the bed and Spengler immediately grasped it. "I thought...! was afraid..." His fingers tightened abruptly. "I couldn't get to you."

 

           Margaret laid a soothing hand on her son's forehead, smoothing back the unruly locks. "Settle down, sweetheart. The doctor says you aren't to get upset. Everyone is safe, I promise you."

 

           With his other hand, Spengler covered the slender fingers gripping his. "I wasn't in the building, Peter," he admitted, his own voice tight with a mixture of concern and guilt. "I managed to climb out a side window." He rubbed a thumb gently over the hand in his, his eyes never leaving his friend's face. "I'm sorry."

 

           With his eloquent eyes hidden from view, it was hard to determine Peter's expression, but Margaret could feel his body relaxing in relief. In as stern a voice as he could manage, Peter croaked, "Nothing to be sorry for, Spengs. I'm just glad you weren't in there. You got that?"

 

           A soft smile touched the physicist's face. "Yes, Peter. I got it."

 

           "Good." The brown-haired man turned his face a little to where Margaret was sitting. "Sorry to scare you, Mom," he whispered.

 

           Margaret gently stroked the side of his fire-reddened face. "Hush. There's nothing to be sorry for, young man. You got that?"

 

           One side of Peter's mouth tilted in a tired smile. "Yes, ma'am."

 

           Egon gave the hand in his a final pat before releasing it. "You stay, Margaret. I'll send Ray and Winston in one at a time." Looking back at Peter he added, "We'll be back first thing tomorrow, Peter, but the doctor said you're to rest tonight."

 

           This time, both sides of Peter's mouth curved. "Your voice is changing, Mom," he said impishly.

 

           For the first time all evening Margaret saw the tight little lines of tension around Egon's mouth fade and a glimmer of fond amusement spark in his blue eyes. Glancing down at Peter, she sensed he seemed to be waiting for just that.

 

           "And you, Peter," Spengler said with mock sternness, "are incorrigible."

 

           "Yeah, but I'm cute, right, Mom?"

 

           Picking up her son's tone, Margaret winked at Egon and took Peter's hand. "Well, I always thought so, dear, but I'm your mother. I'd love you no matter how you looked."

 

           "Gee, thanks, Mom," Peter said plaintively. "You're great for my ego."

 

           "I've never noticed your ego needing any particular help," the blond man said dryly and reached down to briefly squeeze the younger man's arm. "I'll see you tomorrow." He hesitated, like Margaret, seeing the fatigue written on Peter's face. "If you're too tired, I can tell Ray—"

 

           "Don't you dare," Peter interrupted hoarsely. "You know how he is; he won't believe I'm okay until he sees me." A tired smile brightened his face momentarily. "Send 'em in, Spengs."

 

           Spengler looked at Margaret, waited for her nod, then left the room.

 

           As soon as the door whooshed shut Peter tightened his fingers around Margaret's. "Is he okay, Mom?"

 

           "Honey, I promise you, Egon's fine, and so are Ray and Winston."

 

           But the brown head moved restlessly on the pillow. "No, I mean is he _okay?"_

 

           Understanding the meaning behind her son's question, Margaret stroked the hand in hers. "He will be, now that he knows you are."

 

           Even with the bandages hiding the expression on his face, Margaret knew that answer wasn't enough for her son. "Keep an eye on him, Mom. Sometimes he tries to convince himself he's okay when he isn't. And he won't go to Ray to talk..."

 

           _But you always know, don't you? And if he doesn't come to you, you'll go to him. Just like I know Egon will always come to you when he senses you need to talk._ "I will," she promised. "Now will you _please_ keep still. The doctor said—"

 

           "Peter!"

 

           Margaret looked around in time to see Ray Stantz step into the room, a combination of shock and relief crossing his youthful face at his first look at Peter.

 

           "Hey, pal," Peter whispered. He must be exhausted by now, but he managed to produce a reassuring smile for his friend. "Excuse me for not getting up, but..."

 

           The auburn-haired man rushed across the room, stood for a second staring down at the psychologist, then leaned over and gathered him into a gentle one-armed embrace. "Oh, Peter, you're okay! You're really okay!"

 

           "Course I am." Margaret released his hand so Peter could weakly return the embrace. "It's all right, Ray. I'm fine."

 

           The younger man pulled back, tears shining in his eyes. "I was so scared—"

 

           "I know," Peter broke in quickly. "But it's over now." He lifted his left hand and Ray grabbed it. "Hey, need you to do something for me, pal."

 

           "What do you need, Peter?" Ray asked immediately, eager to do anything to help.

 

           Peter's words were beginning to slur from exhaustion, but he refused to give in to it. "Look after my mom while I'm laid up, okay?"

 

           The occultist looked at Margaret, his shoulders straightening, and he gave her a warm smile. "You bet I will. Don't you worry about a thing. I'll look after her."

 

           "Knew I could count on you, Tex."

 

 

 

           "He's asleep, Margaret."

 

           Margaret looked up at the touch on her shoulder and nodded at Egon. "I know. I was just thinking about the time he was six and had his tonsils out." She returned her gaze to her sleeping son, the memory returning in a rush. "A tonsillectomy is supposed to be such a routine operation, nothing to worry about, the doctors said. But he developed some sort of infection afterwards. They nearly lost him." Gently, she reached out to brush the tangled brown hair off Peter's forehead. "I stayed with him in that hospital room for three days. I never left his side." She felt a sob well up inside her and this time she realized she wouldn't be able to stifle it.

 

           The next thing she knew she was on her feet and being pulled against a warm chest, strong arms holding her while the sobs that would no longer be denied racked her body.

 

           "It's all right to cry, Margaret," Egon whispered. "It was very close. We were all scared."

 

           "I can't lose him, Egon. I just can't."

 

           The blond man's arms tightened. "You're not going to lose him," he said fiercely. _"We're_ not going to lose him." He held her for a long time as all her pent-up fears and relief of the last several hours found release.

 

           Finally, her tears spent, Margaret raised her head from its haven and accepted the handkerchief Egon held out for her. "I'm sorry," she said shakily, wiping her eyes. "I didn't meant to lose control like that."

 

           Egon gripped her shoulders and ducked his head to meet her eyes. "There's nothing to be sorry for," he said gently. "Are you all right now?"

 

           She nodded, smiling wanly. "I guess I just needed to get that out of my system." Shooting a quick, worried look over her shoulder, she reassured herself her son was still asleep. "I hope I didn't disturb him—"

 

           "He's still asleep." Egon cleared his throat tactfully. "But perhaps you'd like to freshen up before we leave. If Ray sees you've been crying..."

 

           Margaret nodded her immediate understanding. "I'll just wash my face," she murmured and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

 

           Egon waited until the door was shut, then walked over to the bed and sat down in the chair Margaret had occupied earlier. "How much of that did you hear?" he asked quietly.

 

           "Enough." Peter turned his head away with a little moan. "Damn it, Egon, I never wanted to put her through this—"

 

           "Listen to me, Peter." Careful to keep his voice low, Egon leaned closer to his friend. "She had a dreadful scare today and just had a perfectly normal reaction to that scare." Laying his hand on Peter's, which was clenching the bed cover, he squeezed gently. "She'll be fine, I promise you. She'll also be out any second now," he added pointedly.

 

           "In other words," Venkman murmured, his voice trailing off, "fake a snooze..."

 

           Egon smiled as he watched the muscles in his friend's face gradually relax in an unmistakable sign of sleep. "I don't think you're going to have to fake anything," he said softly, and replaced the lax hand on the bed.

 

*****

 

           Peter Venkman shifted restlessly in the uncomfortable hospital bed and waited impatiently for visiting hours to begin. His mother had already called this morning and he had talked to her and the guys for as long as his still-sore throat would allow. That had cheered him for a time, as had the fact that Doctor Grayson removed those god-awful patches from his eyes. But now he was bored, had a headache, his arm hurt, and he was starting to feel generally lousy all over. Weren't hospitals supposed to make you feel _better,_ not _worse?_

 

           With a frustrated sigh, he closed his eyes and gave in to the lethargy induced by the painkillers.

 

           The pressure of soft, cool lips against his forehead brought him awake. Without opening his eyes he mumbled, "That better not be you, Egon."

 

           A bass rumble sounded. "Well, actually, Peter..."

 

           Venkman's eyes flew open to find both the physicist and his mother by his bed, both smiling broadly. He did his best to arrange his features into a scowl. "Didn't anybody ever tell you it's not nice to tease a sick man? And what's the point of being in a hospital if people don't wait on you hand and foot and cater to your every whim?" he complained, his frustration pouring out. "And what took you so long?"

 

           "You're certainly sounding more like your old self," Spengler said dryly.

 

           "Hello, sweetheart." His mother leaned over and kissed him again, this time letting her lips linger against his skin. When she finally pulled back there was a worried frown on her face. "You've got a fever." Before Peter could protest that, she turned to confront the nurse adjusting the drip in his IV. "He's got a fever," she said sternly.

 

           Peter rolled his eyes in mortification. "Aw, Mom..."

 

           His nurse, a matronly gray-haired woman who had given him a world-class back rub that morning, nodded agreement. "Yes, he does." She gave Peter knowing look. "No thermometer in the world can compete with a mother's lips," she told him. Finished with the IV, she picked up his chart, made a notation, then turned back to Margaret. "It seems he's developed a little infection in that arm."

 

           "Infection?" Margaret repeated, and Peter heard the alarm in her voice.

 

           "We've got it under control," the nurse assured her. "Doctor Grayson has increased the antibiotics, and we're going to be keeping a close eye on him. But I'm afraid that means he's going to be our guest for a little while longer. We want to make sure it's all cleared up before we let him go home." She gave them all a friendly smile, then left the room.

 

           Margaret sat in the chair by his bed and took his hand, her eyes sweeping his face. Peter had seen himself in the bathroom mirror after Doctor Grayson removed the patches and he knew his eyes were still red-rimmed and bloodshot. This wasn't doing his image one bit of good. "How are you feeling, dear?"

 

           "Not bad," he lied, calling up the brightest smile he could manage. "How about you?"

 

           That earned him a stern look. But not for long. "We brought you a change of clothes, your shaving kit and some tapes to listen to. Oh, yes, and Ray sent along some books about a Captain Steel."

 

           Peter grimaced. "Swell."

 

           "Ray and Winston are coming by this afternoon," his mother continued, ignoring his comment. "We were afraid if we all came at once we might tire you out." She paused to look at his half-eaten breakfast still on the bed tray. "You need to eat, Peter," she scolded gently. And with a fever you need to drink plenty of liquids."

 

           Peter glanced over her shoulder to where Egon was standing, hands in his pockets, a pensive look on his face. Egon hadn't had much to say since he got here; come to think of it, he didn't have much to say on the phone this morning, either. "Mom, could you do me a big favor?"

 

           "Do you need something, sweetheart?"

 

           "You're right about the liquids. And you know what I'd really like? A big coke, with lots of ice. Not that sugar-free, caffeine-free stuff; a _real_ coke." He injected just the right amount of wheedling into his tone. "Just like you used to give me when I was sick."

 

           His mother gave him a long look, then leaned forward and placed a kiss on his cheek. "If you wanted to talk to Egon," she whispered, "all you had to do was say so." Leaning back, she got to her feet. "I'll see what I can do about that coke."

 

           "With plenty of ice," he called out hoarsely as she left the room, wondering, not for the first time, how she always seemed to know exactly what he was up to. Once she was gone, the two men were left in silence. Finally Peter sighed. "So, big guy, are you going to entertain me, or what?"

 

           The blond man smiled and Venkman could see the genuine relief in his eyes. "You look much better today, Peter."

 

           "Yeah," he said in some disgust, "there's a mirror in the bathroom. I know how terrific I look."

 

           "You were very fortunate," Egon said seriously. "Your eyes could have been permanently damaged."

 

           "Yeah, but they weren't." Venkman cleared his throat. "You know, Egon, I'm not really up to shouting across the room. You want to come a little closer."

 

           "I'm sorry, Peter." Immediately Spengler took the long strides necessary over to the bedside. Without meeting the psychologist's eyes he sank down into the chair Margaret had vacated.

 

           Peter studied him for a moment in silence, then said, "We all know how I am this morning. How are you?"

 

           The blond head shot up. "Me? I'm fine."

 

           "Yeah, you look fine." Egon looked like he hadn't slept at all. "Tell me something, big guy," he said steadily, "would you feel better if you'd actually been _inside_ that building when I went in for you?"

 

           Spengler's blue eyes blazed with sudden anger. "What kind of question is that?" he snapped.

 

           "One designed to get a reaction," Peter murmured. "And I think I just got one." Reaching out, he made a fist and weakly tapped Spengler's arm. "Come on, Spengs," he said gently, "guilt trips aren't your style. And they're especially useless when there's no reason for them."

 

           "Peter, _I wasn't in that building_!" Spengler burst out. "You could have _died_ trying to save me and I wasn't even there!"

 

           Venkman regarded him calmly, wrapping his fingers around the nearest slender wrist. "It didn't matter that you weren't in there," he said in a completely level voice. "I _thought_ you were. That was enough." He gave the wrist in his grip a little shake. "And from what I hear from Ray you were ready to charge in there after me, too—and that's when the whole damn building was falling down."

 

           "That was different," the blond man objected immediately. "I knew you were in there."

 

           Peter shook his head. "You only _assumed_ I was in there. For all you knew, I could have climbed out the same window you did." He fixed his friend with a stem gaze. "Forget the guilt, buddy. I'm not going to let you get away with it." Spengler opened his mouth to protest, but Peter didn't give him a chance. "It's a tough one, I know," he continued seriously. "And, believe me, if the situation had been reversed I'd be telling myself all the same things you are. But then you'd be the one in this bed giving me this little lecture. And I hope I'd be smart enough to listen."

 

           Egon looked at him a long time, only the anguish in his eyes giving his face any life. Finally he sighed and dropped a hand on top of Peter's. Thank you," he said quietly.

 

           The blond man didn't elaborate on that statement, but Peter saw the beginnings of peace in his blue eyes, and he understood. "We're all okay, Egon," he said solemnly. "You, me. Ray, Winston. We're okay, and that's all that matters."

 

           A soft smile touched the physicist's lips. "In that. Doctor Venkman, you are absolutely correct."

 

           Peter settled back into his pillow with a satisfied grin. "I knew if I lived long enough, I'd finale hear you admit I was right about something." He sighed contentedly, eyes twinkling. "My life is  complete."

 

*****

 

           Ray Stantz brought another plate of Christmas cookies into the TV room and set them on the refreshment table, then turned to survey the room with a contented smile. It was Christmas Eve afternoon and the firehouse was filled with people. It was filled with _family._ He let his eyes travel around the room, taking it all in. Winston's parents were talking to Egon's mother, Janine had Egon firmly in hand, making sure he was socializing with her parents, and Winston and Margaret were seated on either side of Peter on the sofa, the three of them chuckling over some comment he had made.

 

           _Peter_ **.** His infection cleared up, the psychologist had just been released from the hospital that morning. Ray was going to cancel the party, thinking it might be too much for the still-convalescing Venkman, but Peter wouldn't hear of it. He still wasn't feeling up to par, but he was propped up on the sofa, crutches at his feet, happy to let everyone wait on him hand and foot.

 

           Ray let his gaze rest on his friend, his smile softening. He had always loved Christmas and always expected the best from it, but this year it was special. This year he had even more to be thankful for. Peter was home, safe and alive, and everyone had their family around them. It was a shame his own Aunt Lois couldn't be here, too, but she was spending Christmas out of town with her daughter.

 

           The sound of the doorbell downstairs made him turn, but Egon hastily excused himself from Janine's parents and made for the door. Ray kept his grin to himself as Egon hurried past, catching the sharp glare Janine threw after the disappearing physicist. Lifting a star-shaped sugar cookie from the tray, Stantz nibbled it, watching with delight as Egon's mother organized a sing-along with the carols playing on the stereo. This was the way Christmas should be.

 

           "Ray." A touch on his arm brought his head around, and his eyes widened in sudden surprise. Egon was standing behind him, and beside Spengler stood Charlie Venkman.

 

           "Mr. Venkman! What are you—"

 

           The older man put his finger to his lips. "Wanted to surprise my boy for Christmas," he whispered.

 

           "I don't think that will be a problem," Egon muttered under his breath.

 

           Ray shot a sharp look at the blond man and their eyes met in wry understanding. The last person Peter would expect to see at Christmas was his father. Then Ray glanced quickly over his shoulder. Charlie Venkman was also the last person Peter's _mother_ would expect to see here.

 

           Egon cleared his throat tactfully. "Mr. Venkman, I think perhaps I should tell you that Margaret is also here—"

 

           "Maggie?" Venkman broke into a toothy grin. "This'll be a real family reunion then, won't it?" Before Egon could stop him, the man bounded into the room, booming, "Maggie! Peter! Merry Christmas!"

 

           On the sofa, two heads shot around, and all over the room heads turned. Peter's face, still pale from his injuries, lit up in a combination of shock and delight. "Dad! What are you doing here?"

 

           Standing over his son, the elder Venkman feigned a hurt tone. "Do I need a reason to spend Christmas with my boy?"

 

           Even from across the room Ray couldsee the knowledge in Peter's eyes; he may be elated that his father had come to see him at Christmas, but he didn't believe for a minute that Charlie had come to New York for the sole purpose of being with him on this holiday. But in the next second Ray could see that Peter didn't care. All that mattered was that his father was _here_.

 

           "You sure don't," the psychologist returned promptly, grinning like a kid when his father dropped down beside him and gathered him into a careful bear hug.

 

           "Your pal, Egon, said you got hurt on a job." The older man pulled back, his eyes sweeping anxiously over his son's injuries. "He also said you were okay," he added doubtfully.

 

           "I'm fine," Peter assured him, wriggling on the sofa like an excited kid waiting to open a present Suddenly, he leaned over and gave his father a fierce one-armed hug. "I'm really glad you're here Dad," he whispered.

 

           Charlie Venkman beamed like a brand-new father. "So am I, son," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. Then his eyes met Margaret's, who had stood when he sat down, and he slowly pulled out of Peter's embrace. Climbing to his feet, he nervously straightened his bow tie as he faced his ex-wife. "Hello, Maggie. I didn't mean to bust in like this. I didn't know you'd be here." He hesitated, and for the first time since Ray had known him, Peter's father looked unsure of himself. "If you don't want me to stay..."

 

           Peter's eyes shot to his mother's face, and Ray could see the alarm in them. He held his breath, aware that every eye in that room was fixed on Margaret Venkman's face. There were perhaps a hundred things Margaret could have said at that point—and Ray saw several of them flash through her grey eyes—but what she said was, "Of course we want you to stay." Stepping forward, she put her arms around her ex-spouse in a welcoming hug. "Merry Christmas, Charlie."

 

           Mr. Venkman's arms immediately engulfed the slender woman, his green eyes sparkling every bit as brightly as his son's. "Merry Christmas, Maggie May," he murmured and planted an affectionate kiss on her cheek.

 

           The radio chose that particular moment to play / _Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,_ and everyone burst into laughter as the tension was broken.

 

           Ray watched with delight as quick introductions were made and then Charlie and Margaret settled down on the sofa with Peter ensconced snugly between them. The psychologist was positively beaming as his parents fussed over him and his father assured himself that Peter was really all right.

 

           "Raymond?"

 

           Stantz looked up at Egon's quiet voice. "Look at him, Egon," he said softly. "Look at Peter. I've never seen him so happy. He's waited a long time for a Christmas like this."

 

           The blond man nodded, his own eyes warm with affection as they rested on their friend. "We're all extremely fortunate this Christmas." He slid an arm around Ray's shoulders and squeezed as if to emphasize his point. "Very fortunate."

 

           Ray nodded. "I told him this Christmas was going to be a good memory for him," he whispered. "I'm so happy for him."

 

           Spengler's deep voice was rich with satisfaction. "So am I. As you said, he's waited a long time for this Christmas." Janine caught his eye from across the room and he sighed. "I'd better get back to Janine." He looked down at the younger man. "What are you doing over here by yourself?" he asked gently. "As Peter would say, this is a _party_ , remember?"

 

           "I know, Egon." Stantz waved at the nearly-empty punch bowl. "I'm just going to get some more eggnog, then I'll be back."

 

           The blond man regarded him a moment longer, then said, "Don't be too long," and left to rejoin Janine and her parents.

 

           Ray stood for a moment surveying the festive scene, then turned and left the room. He didn't notice the sharp, green eyes following his departure.

 

           Peter watched Ray leave the room, considered the empty doorway for a moment, then laboriously leaned over to retrieve his crutches.

 

           "Peter!" His mother stopped him with a hand on his arm. "What do you think you're doing?"

 

           "Just going to stretch my legs, Mom."

 

           "In case you've forgotten," she retorted sternly, "one of those legs is broken."

 

           "Just the ankle," he corrected with a grin. "And the doctor said I could move around; that's why they gave me crutches."

 

           "She said you could move around within reason."

 

           "I've got a good reason," he said promptly. It took him some time to get the crutches fitted properly under his arms and he felt his parents' hands steadying him as he got to his feet. He couldn't remember the last time his mother and father had been in the same room together... and he wasn't sure he could ever remember them being together without arguing. Yet it was Christmas and they were here and it looked like they were both determined to uphold the truce they had obviously called...for him. Love for these two people rushed through him as he settled shakily on his crutches, supported by the same hands that had held him when he was young. Turning his head, he gave each one a long, grateful look. "Mom, Dad...thanks."

 

           Margaret tilted her head and placed a kiss on his cheek. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

 

           On his other side, a hand tightened on his shoulder. "Merry Christmas, son." When he looked at his father, the man offered an apologetic smile. "Better late than never, I guess."

 

           His eyes locked with his father's, Peter nodded immediate agreement. Then, sensing the sentiment was getting a little thick for his dad, he grinned and gave each parent a wink. "Now you two play nice until I get back," he said impishly and set off on wobbly crutches for the kitchen.

 

           He had only gotten a few steps when Egon joined him, adding a steadying hand just in case.

 

           "Are you headed for the kitchen?"

 

           "Where else? We seem to be one short out here. But then you've probably noticed that, haven't you?"

 

           The blond man nodded. "He said he was going for more eggnog."

 

           "Doesn't take this long to get eggnog."

 

           "Are you going to need help?"

 

           Peter shot a rueful look at the taller man. "With Ray, maybe. With these damn things, definitely. The problem with crutches," he grumbled, "is that when they give them to you, they assume you have two good arms." Although his burned arm wasn't in a sling, it was securely wrapped and using the crutches pulled painfully on his dry, tight skin. "Just get me to the kitchen door, Spengs, then stand by, okay?"

 

           Egon nodded and steered him across the room. "Do you think," he broached hesitantly, "that Ray is feeling a little depressed... with all the family around?"

 

           Peter acknowledged the point with a soft sigh. "Depression's not usually Ray's thing...but then neither is hiding in the kitchen." He gave his head an impatient shake. "I know this whole party was his idea, but I should have thought about how it might affect him."

 

           "Nonsense," Egon objected immediately. "In all the years we've known him, we've never seen Ray anything but happy and enthusiastic around Christmas. There's no way you could have anticipated any other reaction." Spengler gave the psychologist's arm a brief squeeze. "Perhaps it was simply seeing you reunited with your own parents," he suggested gently.

 

           They reached the kitchen door and Peter thought about the picture of his folks sitting on the sofa, conversing quietly. "Can you believe it, Egon?" he said softly. "Mom and Dad together at Christmas? Do you know how long it's been...?" He stopped himself before finishing the question and gave a self-conscious shrug.

 

           "Peter."

 

           The psychologist raised his eyes to lock with Egon's solemn blue ones. "This could have been the most terrible time imaginable for all of us." Spengler's voice was very quiet, but filled with emotion. "The paramedics said it was a miracle they were able to get to you in time; the doctors said it was a miracle you survived without any permanent damage. As a scientist, I normally discount 'miracles.' Instead, I look for some logical, scientific explanation for the unexplainable. But this is one time I am quite happy to believe in miracles. I'm so very grateful that you're here and you're safe and alive."

 

           A smile blossomed across Venkman's face. "And I'm so very grateful that you are, too, pal." He hooked his good arm around the physicist and pulled him into a tight hug, ignoring the crutch that dropped to the floor. This whole thing hadn't been easy on Egon. All his buddies—and especially his mom—had been given a bad scare, but he suspected Spengler had been carrying around a little kernel of guilt inside him that just wouldn't go away. He wanted to make sure it went away _now._ Peter felt the physicist's arms pull him into a fierce embrace and he tightened his own arm, trying to convey reassurance, absolution, gratitude, and his love for this man all at once. "Merry Christmas, Spengs."

 

           Spengler pulled him closer, whispered, "Merry Christmas, Peter," then slowly relaxed his grip.

 

           Venkman pulled back and the two men looked at each other, a moment of deep, genuine understanding passing between them.

 

           Then, still steadying Peter with one hand on his arm, Egon bent down and retrieved the fallen crutch, settling it securely in place before releasing his hold. "I'll be right here if you need me." Peter nodded, then turned and hobbled into the kitchen.

 

           Ray was sitting at the kitchen table staring at a pitcher of eggnog when Peter walked in. Stantz' head shot up and his brown eyes went wide at the sight of the psychologist teetering precariously in the doorway. "Peter! What are you doing up?"

 

           "You've been declared MIA, buddy," Venkman said mildly. "Thought you might need some help with that eggnog."

 

           "What?" The younger man looked at the pitcher as if seeing it for the first time, his face coloring. But he was on his feet in a second, crossing the floor in long bounds and taking Peter's good arm with a frown. "You're not supposed to be up," he scolded with a little frown and guided him to the nearest chair, gently pushing him down. But Stantz didn't move away immediately. He stood by Venkman's side for a moment, his hand resting on the older man's shoulder, then sighed and walked back to his own chair. Dropping down into the seat, the younger man fixed his attention on an invisible spot on the table next to the pitcher of eggnog. "I know why you're here, Peter," he said quietly.

 

           "Oh, really?" Venkman considered his friend with interest. "You know, I've been accused of a lot of things in my life, but _never_ of being predictable."

 

           That drew a slight, tilted smile from the occultist.

 

           "So, Stanz-o the Magnificent," Peter said lightly, "why am I here?"

 

           Ray still didn't lift his eyes. "You think I'm feeling left out because you all have your families here," he said in a small voice.

 

           Reaching out with his good arm, Peter placed two fingers under the occultist's chin and lifted it until Ray was forced to meet his eyes. "Aren't you?" he asked, very gently.

 

           Stantz bit his lip. "I'm sorry, Peter," he whispered.

 

           "For what? Missing your parents?" Venkman shook his head. "Don't ever be sorry for that." He dropped his hand onto Ray's good arm and squeezed. "Ray, you've got to know how much you mean to us. You, me and Egon...we've been family since college. And now Winston's come on board. You've got three brothers here, and you will _always_ have three brothers here. We can never take the place of your folks, but as long as I live you will always have _family_ and I will always be here for you. Don't you ever forget that."

 

           Ray's brown eyes were shining with gratitude and affection as they rested on Venkman's face. "I know that, Peter. You and Egon were the first people who ever really cared about me after my parents died. You guys..." His voice wobbled a little as his emotions caught up with him. "You guys mean everything to me."

 

           Peter nodded, his eyes never leaving his friend's face. "And you mean everything to us." He paused, then continued with quiet understanding, "But it's hard at a time like this...with your folks gone, isn't it?"

 

           The auburn-haired man nodded. "I still miss them. And seeing you with your mom and dad—" Ray broke off, a stricken look crossing his face. "Oh, Peter, I didn't mean—I'm so happy for you—"

 

           "I know you are, pal," Peter interrupted immediately. "No apologies," he said firmly, wishing once again he had had the foresight to anticipate what a gathering like this might do to Ray. "It just brought back some memories, didn't it?"

 

           The younger man nodded, a faraway expression on his face. "Yeah, but they were good memories. It's not that I didn't want to remember them..."

 

           "...it's just that they kind of took you by surprise," Peter suggested gently. "Kind of like _deja vu_?"

 

           Ray sighed softly. "Yeah, kind of like that. I guess I just needed to be by myself for a little while. I-I didn't want to spoil your Christmas."

 

           Peter leaned forward and dropped his arm around Ray's neck, pulling his friend a little closer. "The only way you could possibly spoil my Christmas," he said seriously, "is to not be here. This is the first time in my life I've had my whole family around me at Christmas, Ray. Do you know what that means to me?"

 

           Understanding warmed Stantz's eyes. "Yeah, I do."

 

           "Good." The psychologist leaned back in his chair and made himself comfortable. "Then you take as long as you need out here, pal. I'll wait with you."

 

           "Peter, you don't have to—"

 

           "And so will I."

 

           Peter grinned to himself at the sound of the quiet bass voice from the doorway. _Egon, ol' buddy, your timing is impeccable._

 

           Spengler walked into the kitchen and took a seat, stretching out his long legs to make himself comfortable.

 

           Ray looked from one to the other, his face alight with surprise and gratitude. "You guys don't have to..."

 

           "Is there room for one more?" Peter looked up with a pleased smile as Winston ambled into the room and pulled out a chair for himself. Dropping into it, Zeddemore settled back and casually crossed his arms.

 

           Ray let his eyes travel from one to the other, finally letting his gaze rest on Peter. "Thanks, guys," he said softly.

 

           Before Peter could say anything to that, a feminine voice called out from the doorway, "So that's where you boys have gotten to."

 

           He turned around at the sound of his mother's voice. "Mom, we were just—"

 

           "Peter Venkman, if you were in that eggnog—you know you're not allowed to have alcohol while you're on medication."

 

           "No, ma'am," he retorted, winking at Ray, "Ray wouldn't let me near it."

 

           "Good for Ray. Come on, all of you into the living room. Winston, your father's got a camera and he's determined to get one big family portrait."

 

           The black man grinned. "Ever since he got that new camera, he's become the official family photographer. He's driving everybody nuts. Last week he took pictures of Mom going to a supermarket opening. I'm just waiting for him to ask to come along on a bust."

 

           Peter barely heard him. His eyes were fixed on Ray's face, searching for a reaction. _A family portrait? Bad timing,_ Mr. _Zeddemore. Bad timing, bad timing, bad timing._

 

           "Ray." Margaret had walked into the kitchen and stopped behind Peter, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Charlie and I have saved a place for you by Peter." She paused, a smile warming her eyes. "You will join us, won't you? After all, it wouldn't be a real family portrait without you."

 

           Something like relief flickered across Stantz' face and his eyes sparkled with delight. "Yes, ma'am. I'd like that."

 

           Margaret nodded, satisfaction coloring her tone, "Good." Peter reached up and covered the hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. She returned the pressure, then turned a mischievous smile on the blond physicist. "Egon, I think Janine has plans for where you're going to stand," she said dryly. "And Winston, your father was having a little problem with the tripod."

 

           "Sounds like that's my cue." Zeddemore climbed to his feet with a tolerant grin and ambled out of the kitchen.

 

           Egon got to his feet also, albeit a little slower. He paused at Peter's side, but Ray stood up, "I'll help him, Egon."

 

           Peter looked up at the taller man with a grin. "Yeah, you'd better go take your rightful place before Janine comes looking for you, big guy."

 

           Egon made a most un-Spengler-like face at the psychologist, then gathered his dignity around him like a cloak and left the room.

 

           Margaret gave her grinning son a thoughtful look. "You know, sweetheart, Egon was right: you _are_ incorrigible."

 

           "Yeah," Peter retorted cheekily, "but I'm cute." That was supposed to elicit a stern look from his mother, but Peter saw a shadow flicker across her face as if she were suddenly remembering how close this Christmas had come to being a day of mourning instead of a day of celebration. Recalling how he had overheard her breakdown in the hospital, he held out his hand. "Hey," he said softly, "come here." Margaret leaned down immediately, gathering him into a tight embrace. With his one good arm he hugged her with all his strength. "I know nothing I can say is going to make you stop worrying," he whispered, "but I really am happy. Mom. And we all look out for one another."

 

           "I know that." A warm sigh brushed Peter's ear, then she pulled back, looking at him steadily. "I can't stop worrying," she admitted, "but I do know you're in good hands." She glanced up at Ray. "Very good hands." Turning back to her son, she placed a kiss on his cheek, then straightened, her eyes suspiciously bright. "Don't be too long, boys. And, Ray, keep an eye on him. He doesn't handle those crutches very well."

 

           "Yes, ma'am," Stantz retorted immediately, "he is pretty clumsy."

 

           "Clumsy? Well, I like that!" Peter was still sputtering as Ray helped him to his feet and settled the crutches under his arms. "When I get this cast off, I'll show you clumsy, Stantz."

 

           "You're showing me clumsy _now,_ Peter. Here, let me make sure I've got you." The younger man gripped Peter's good arm firmly.

 

           Margaret watched them with all the contentment of a mother watching her two boys at play, then left the room, laughing softly to herself.

 

           Balancing on his crutches, Peter looked down into the youthful, open face of his friend, his tone turning serious. "You remember what I said a few days ago, Ray—about Christmas memories?"

 

           The auburn-haired man nodded, the amusement fading from his eyes. "You said you didn't have many good ones."

 

           "Well, I've got one now," Venkman said softly.

 

           A slow smile broke out on Stantz' face. "We both do."

 

           "Peter! Ray!" 'Big Ed' Zeddemore poked his head in the kitchen. "Come on, boys," he urged. "We're losing the light!" Then he ducked out again.

 

           "Losing the light?" Peter looked at Ray, bewildered. "How you can you lose the light inside?"

 

           Ray Stantz released his grip on Peter's arm long enough to throw his arm around the psychologist's shoulders and give him a hug. "It's Christmas, Peter!" he exclaimed happily. _"Anything_ is possible!"

 

           Peter thought about the marvel of his own survival and of his parents sitting together in the next room and decided maybe Christmas miracles _were_ possible. At least this once. With Mr. Zeddemore's help, they were going to capture this one particular Christmas miracle forever.

 

**_< fin>_ **

 

 


End file.
